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GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,  1922 
BY   GEORGE   H.   DORAN   COMPANY 


GIVING  AND  RECEIVING.     II 


PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OP  AMERICA 


CONTENTS 


Giving  and  Receiving 

The  Battle  of  the  Mothers 

My  Sculptor 

Uno   Fiascone 

The  Italian  in  England 

The  Eight  Cities 

A  Forerunner  of  D'Annunzio 

The  Evolution  of  Whimsicality 

Points  of  Interest    . 

A  Signpost  .... 

Breguet        .... 

The  Tail  and  the  Souvenirs 

The   Blue   Ruritania 

Signs  and  Avoirdupois 

For  Ourselves  Alone 

Another  "Young  Cricketers' 

On  Being  a  Foreigner 

The    Cynosure    .        . 

Thoughts   on   Theft 

Honours   Easy     . 

Temptation 

The  Wardrobe    . 


Tutor' 


PAGE 

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21 

27 
31 

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71 

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105 

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122 

126 

139 

143 

149 

154 

158 


[v] 


Contents 


Reunion 


IN  THE  PADDED  SEATS: 

i  the  cowakuly  consumer 

h  public  spirit 

iii  before  and  after    . 

iv  tight  corners  . 

v  an  implacable  raconteur 

vi  the  bond   .... 

Fate 

The    Injustice    .... 
"Whenever  I  See  a  Grey  Horse 


FAOK 

163 


168 
172 
177 
180 
185 
189 

194 

199 
204 


[vi] 


GIVING  AND  RECEIVING 


GIVING  AND  RECEIVING 


GIVING  AND  RECEIVING 

ACCORDING  to  many  of  the  Old  Masters 
Jr\.  the  earliest  Christmas  presents  were  given 
nearly  two  thousand  years  ago  and  were  re- 
ceived probably  with  the  utmost  embarrassment. 
They  consisted  principally  of  gold  and  frank- 
incense and  myrrh,  and  were  laid  at  the  feet  of 
a  tiny  Baby  lying  in  a  manger  in  a  stable  in 
Juda?a,  the  givers  being  three  Wise  Men — some 
say  even  kings — from  the  East:  Melchior,  Cas- 
par, and  Balthasar,  It  is  principally  from  pic- 
tures of  the  visit  of  the  Three  Kings  that  we 
derive  our  ideas  of  the  incident;  and  it  would 
now  be  a  very  arduous  task  to  correct  those 
ideas.  But  as  a  matter  of  Biblical  history,  the 
Child  had  long  been  born  when  the  Wise  Men 
arrived,  and  He  was  then  not  in  the  manger, 
but  in  the  house.  See  St.  Matthew's  narrative, 
chapter  ii,  verse  11.  St.  Luke,  in  his  story, 
makes  the  new-born  Infant's  first  visitors 
neitlier  Kings  nor  Wise  Men  from  the  East  but 
shepherds. 

[9] 


Giving  and  Receiving 

In  any  case,  the  Baby  can  have  had  nothing 
to  say,  and  how  its  motlicr,  who  had  been  in  a 
state  of  surprise  for  some  months,  and  her  hus- 
band, who  also  liad  not  a  few  thoughts  to  carry, 
behaved,  we  shall  never  know.  But  those  were 
the  first  Christmas  presents,  and  for  nineteen 
centuries  the  custom  of  giving  them  has  been 
growing;  but  wliether  the  art  of  giving  them  is 
any  nearer  perfection  now  than  then  is  a  ques- 
tion. I  know,  at  any  rate,  that  I  was  given 
several  last  Christmas  which  were  not  as 
"exactly  what  I  had  been  wanting"  as  I  pro- 
tested they  were. 

Be  this  as  it  may,  it  is  firmly  fixed  in  our 
minds  that,  on  His  entrance  into  the  world, 
the  little  Jesus  was  greeted  with  golden  vessels 
containing  frankincense  and  myrrh,  and  all 
children  born  on  December  25,  since  that  De- 
cember 25  so  long  ago,  have  felt  it  to  be  an 
injustice  that  their  birthday  and  Christmas 
Day,  by  coinciding,  should  deprive  them  of 
half  their  proper  meed  of  notice.  A  witty  and 
fanciful  friend  of  mine  makes,  however,  the 
startling  suggestion  that  in  selecting  that  day 
on  which  to  be  born,  Christ  offers  another  proof 
of  unselfishness.  As  to  what  the  Infant 
thought  as  the  grave  strangers  laid  the  offer- 
ings at  His  feet,  we  are  in  ignorance;  but  we 
know  that  later,  at  any  rate,  He  gave  some 
[10] 


Giving  and  Receiving 

attention  to  the  question  of  gifts,  for  did  He 
not  bewilder  all  children  (especially  at  Christ- 
mas) and  puzzle  not  a  few  of  their  elders,  by 
enunciating  the  astonishing  proposition  that  it 
is  more  blessed  to  giv^e  than  to  receive? 

Even   those,    however,    who    require    time    to 
take  in  the  full  significance  of  this  saying  will 
readily  agree  that  giving  is  usually   simpler — 
so  much  simpler  indeed  that  there  is  almost  no 
comparison    between    the    two    actions.     Giving 
can    be    so    easy    as    to    be    almost    automatic, 
whereas  receiving  can  make  demands  on  every 
nerve.     Givers,  particularly  careless  ones — and 
most   givers   think  too  little — can  survive   to  a 
great  age   and   never   have   to   practise   any   of 
the    facial    contortions    and    the    tactful    verbal 
insincerities  which  recipients  of  their  generosity 
must  be  continually  calling  to  their  aid;  where- 
as, if  the  art  of  giving  were  rightly  understood 
and   practised,  the  only   expression  to  be   seen 
on   the    features    of   the   receivers    of   presents 
would  be  one  of  surprise  and  joy  mingled,  and 
that    phrase,    which    is    almost    as    common    at 
Christmas  time  as  "Same  to  you" — "Oh,  thank 
you    so    much:    it's    exax>tly    what    I    wanted," 
would    ring  witli   the   bell-Iike  tones   and   vibra- 
tions   of    genuineness.     As     it    is — wholly    be- 
cause giving  is  so  simple:  an  affair  of  a  sho])- 

[11] 


Giving  and  Receiving 

assistant's  advice,  of  the  writing  of  a  cheque — 
as  it  is,  most  elephants  are  white. 

Profane  as  well  as  sacred  history  tells  us 
more  of  the  giving  of  presents  than  of  their 
reception.  In  fact,  to  enumerate  the  offerings 
of  king  to  king  is  one  of  the  historian's  simple 
pleasures.  But  we  have,  as  a  rule,  no  informa- 
tion either  as  to  the  remarks  made  by  the  recipi- 
ent whose  appraising  eye  checked  off  the  apes 
and  the  ivory  and  the  peacocks,  or  the  consulta- 
tions of  the  Ministers  of  State  as  the  consign- 
ment of  generosity  was  being  made  up.  One  can 
see  them  in  conmiittee  a  few  days  before  the 
monarch  sets  forth  on  his  expedition  to  the 
friendly  State:  "Don't  you  think"  (the  Chan- 
cellor of  tlie  Exchequer  is  speaking),  "don't  you 
think  two  hundred  milk-white  steeds  excessive.'' 
Wouldn't  one  hundred  do?" 

"Or  even   fifty?"  says  the  Home  Secretary. 

"Yes,  or  even  fifty.  It  isn't  as  if  we  were 
visiting  a  really  first-class  Power" — and  so  with 
the  bars  of  gold,  the  precious  stones,  the  spices 
(such  as  the  Queen  of  Sheba  carried  to  Solo- 
mon), all  would  have  to  be  carefully  measured 
according  to  the  importance  of  the  other  king 
or  the  need  of  his  alliance. 

And  then  there  is  his  side  of  the  transaction: 
"Well,  I  must  say  I  think  they  might  have  been 
a  little  less  stingy.  Only  five  hundred  bales  of 
[12] 


Giving  and  Receiving 

silk !  Not  enough  for  more  than  half  the  ladies 
of  the  Court;  for  you  can't  expect  any  two  to 
wear  the  same  colour.  And  only  thirty  pal- 
freys !  Distinctly  on  the  mean  side."  I  forget 
what  Henry  the  Eighth  gave  Francis  the  First 
at  the  Field  of  tlie  Cloth  of  Gold,  but  the  odds 
are  that  not  a  little  criticism  resulted.  And 
yet  the  odds  also  are  that  Francis  vowed,  hand 
on  heart,  that  it  was  all  exactly  what  he  had 
been  most  desiring. 

In  those  old  days  the  first  thought  of  the 
receiver  of  a  present  was  to  return  it  in  kind; 
which  has  a  certain  crudity,  and  indeed  imports 
an  element  of  calculation  into  the  act  of  giving 
at  all.  It  was  impossible  for  the  visiting  mon- 
arch not  to  speculate  on  what  he  was  going  to 
receive  on  his  departure;  and  that  is  bad.  A 
small  child  intently  preparing,  under  what  she 
conceives  to  be  conditions  of  profound  secrecy, 
a  gift  for  her  mother  is  one  of  the  prettiest  of 
sights.  It  would  lose  at  least  half  its  charm 
if  it  were  the  rule  that  on  presenting  the  kettle- 
holder  or  egg-cover  she  was  instantly  to  be 
handed  one  for  lierself. 

Proverbial  philosophy  warns  us  not  to  look 
gift-horses  in  the  mouth ;  but  the  lessons  of  the 
past  point  in  the  other  direction.  Troy  would 
still  be  standing  had  the  advice  of  the  old  saw 
been  disregarded.     None  the  less,  it  might  do  a 

[13] 


Giving  aiul  Receiving 

Avorld  of  good  if  one  Christmas — this  next 
Christmas,  for  example — we  all  decided  to  tell 
tlie  truth  and  say  exactly  what  we  thought  of 
our  presents,  "Thank  you  for  nothing.  I  can 
see  where  you've  erased  your  own  name  and  put 
mine  in."  "Surely  I  was  worth  more  than 
three-and-eleven !  I  saw  these  at  Harker's  last 
week  and  noted  the  price."  "What's  the  use 
of  giving  me  a  diary  when  you  must  know  I 
never  keep  one?"  "Good  heavens,  you  don't 
really  expect  me  to  wear  a  tie  of  that  colour!" 
But  in  spite  of  the  salutary  effect  upon  givers 
which  might  result,  I  doubt  if  we  could  go  so 
far.  The  human  family  is  held  together  so 
largely  by  compromise  and  lack  of  candour  that 
its  total  disintegration  might  follow;  and  do  we- 
want  that  yet.''  Not  before  the  next  cricket 
season,  at  any  rate. 

So  much  for  the  wrong  kind  of  present.  As 
for  the  best,  it  has  been  laid  down  that  no 
present  is  worth  having  unless  the  giver  would 
rather  have  kept  it  for  himself;  and  I  think 
the  truth  lurks  here.  And  there  is  still  another 
variety,  but  it  cannot  be  very  common.  At 
least — perhaps  it  is.  At  a  certain  home,  the 
head  of  which  was  a  stern,  and  not  too  lavish 
autocrat  in  the  house,  whatever  he  might  have 
been  out  of  it,  there  was  delivered  one  Christmas 
Eve  a  mysterious  box  brought  by  a  mysterious 
[14] 


Giving  and  Receiving 

man,  who  refused  to  divulge  any  particulars; 
merely  saying  it  was  for  the  master.  When, 
after  much  speculation,  it  was  opened,  it  was 
found  to  contain  a  massive  piece  of  silver,  on 
which  was  an  inscription  stating  that  it  was  the 
gift  of  an  unknown  neighbour  and  was  offered 
as  some  recognition  of  the  many  kind  and  gener- 
ous acts  which  the  recipient  had,  within  the 
donor's  cognisance,  performed,  often  with  com- 
plete anonymity.  The  master  of  the  house  did 
not  conceal  his  satisfaction  as  he  read  tliis  en- 
graved testimonial,  even  if  his  family  were 
more  successful  with  their  surprise.  Long  after- 
wards it  was  discovered  that,  with  the  idea  of 
impressing  them,  he  had  sent  it  himself. 


[15] 


THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  MOTHERS 

"How  is  it  with  aged  women?" 

Nat  Chapman. 

WE  were  sitting  in  the  smoking-room  of 
the  Club  when  the  venerable  Archdeacon 
entered.  He  had  been  so  long  absent  that  we 
asked  him  the  reason.     Had  he  been  ill? 

111.''  Not  he.  He  didn't  hold  with  illness. 
Never  was  better  in  his  life.  He  had  merely 
been  on  a  motor  tour  with  his  mother. 

"Do  you  mean  to  say,"  some  one  inquired — 
an  equally  aged  member — almost  with  anger, 
certainly  with  a  kind  of  outraged  wonder,  "that 
you  have  a  mother  still  living?" 

"Of  course  I  have,"  said  the  Man  of  God. 
"My  mother  is  not  only  living  but  is  in  the 
pink  of  condition." 

"And  how  old  is  she?"  the  questioner  con- 
tinued. 

"She  is  ninety-one,"  said  the  Archdeacon 
proudly. 

Most  of  us  looked  at  him  with  surprise  and 
respect — even  a  touch  of  awe. 

"And  still  motoring!"  I  commented. 

"She  delights  in  motoring." 
[16] 


The  Battle  of  the  JMothers 

"Well,"  said  the  testy  man,  "you  needn't 
be  so  conceited  about  it.  You  are  not  the  only 
person  with  an  elderly  mother.  I  have  a  mother 
too." 

We  switched  round  to  this  new  centre  of 
surprise.  It  was  even  more  incredible  that  this 
man  should  have  a  mother  than  the  Archdeacon. 
No  one  had  ever  suspected  him  of  anything  so 
extreme,  for  he  had  a  long  white  beard  and 
hobbled  with  a  stick. 

"And  how  old  may  your  mother  be?"  the 
Archdeacon  inquired. 

"My  mother  is  ninety-two." 

"And  is  she  well  and  hearty?" 

"My  mother,"  he  replied,  "is  in  rude  health — 
or,  as  you  would  say,  full  of  beans." 

The  Archdeacon  made  a  deprecatory  move- 
ment of  dissociation  from  that  vegetable. 

"My  mother  not  only  motors,"  the  layman 
pursued,  "but  she  can  walk.  Can  your  mother 
walk?" 

"I  am  sorry  to  say,"  said  the  Archdeacon, 
"that  my  mother  has  to  be  helped  a  good  deal." 

"Ha !"  said  the  layman. 

"But,"  the  Archdeacon  continued,  "she  has 
aU  her  other  faculties.  Can  your  mother  still 
read  ?" 

"My  motlicr  is  a  most  accomplished  and 
assiduous   knitter,"  said  tke  rival  son. 

[17] 


Giving  and  Receiving 

"No  doubt,  no  doubt/'  the  Archdeacon  agreed; 
"but  my  question  was,  Can  she  still  read?" 

"With  glasses — yes,"  said  the  other. 

"Ha!"  exclaimed  the  Archdeacon,  "I  thought 
so.  Now,  my  dear  motlier  can  still  read  the 
smallest  print  without  glasses." 

We  murmured  our  approval. 

"And  more,"  the  Archdeacon  went  on,  "she 
can  thread  her  own  needle." 

We  approved  again. 

"That's  all  very  well,"  said  the  other,  "but 
sight  is  not  everything.  Can  your  mother 
hear.?" 

"She  can  hear  all  that  I  say  to  her,"  replied 
the  Archdeacon. 

"All !  but  you  probably  raise  your  voice,  and 
she  is  accustomed  to  it.  Could  she  hear  a 
stranger.''     Could  she  hear  me?" 

Remembering  the  trend  of  some  of  his  after- 
lunch  conversations  I  suggested  that  perhaps  it 
would  be  well  if  on  occasions  she  could  not. 
He  glowered  down  such  frivolity  and  proceeded 
with  his  cross-examination.  "Are  you  trying 
to  assure  us  that  your  mother  is  not  in  the  least 
bit  deaf?" 

"Well,"  the  Archdeacon  conceded,  "I  could 
not  go  so  far  as  to  say  that  her  hearing  is  still 
perfect." 
[18] 


The  Battle  of  the  Mothers 

The  layman  smiled  his  satisfaction.  "In 
other  words,"  he  said,  "she  uses  a  trumpet?" 

The  Archdeacon  was  silent. 

"She  uses  a  trumpet.  Sir?     Admit  it." 

"Now  and  then,"  said  the  Archdeacon,  "my 
dear  mother  repairs  the  ravages  of  time  with 
the  assistance  of  modern  mechanism." 

"I  knew  it!"  exclaimed  the  other.  "My 
mother  can  hear  every  word.  She  goes  to  the 
theatre  constantly :  it  is  one  of  her  great  solaces. 
Now,  your  mother  would  have  to  go  to  the 
cinema  if  she  wished  to  be  entertained." 

"My  mother,"  said  the  Archdeacon,  "would 
not  be  interested  in  the  cinema"  (he  pronounced 
it  kinema) ;  "her  mind  is  of  a  more  serious 
turn." 

"My  mother  is  young  enough  to  be  interested 
in  anything,"  said  the  other.  "And  there  is 
not  one  of  her  thirty-eight  grandchildren  of 
whose  progress  she  is  not  kept  closely  in- 
formed." 

He  leaned  back  with  a  gesture  of  triumph. 

"How  many  grandchildren  did  you  say?" 
the  Archdeacon  inquired.  "I  didn't  quite  catch." 

"Thirty-eight,"   the  otlicr  man  replied. 

Across  the  cleric's  ascetic  features  a  happy 
smile  slowly  and  conqueringly  spread.  "My 
mother,"  he  said,  "lias  fifty-two  grandcliildren." 
He  gave  us  time  for  the  figure  to  sink  in.    "And 

[19] 


Giving  and  Receiving 

now,"  he  turned  to  me,  "which  of  us  would  you 
say  has  won  this  entertaining  contest?" 

"I  should  not  like  to  decide,"  I  said.  "I 
am — fortunately  perhaps  for  your  mothers — no 
Solomon.  My  verdict  is  that  both  of  you  are 
wonderfully  lucky  men." 


[20] 


MY  SCULPTOR 

AMONG  the  knick-knacks  in  the  rooms  which 
1.  Meyrick  had  lent  me  was  one  that  pleased 
me  particularly — a  baby  boy  in  bronze  kicking 
the  void  with  tremendous  gusto  and  glee.  Stand- 
ing in  the  window,  as  he  did,  he  was  the  first 
thing  one  saw  against  the  light:  a  symbol  of 
lively  energy  and  fun.  The  name  of  the  sculp- 
tor— GOALi — in  capitals,  was  on  the  front  of  the 
base,  rather  more  in  evidence,  I  thought,  than 
is  usual;  but  one  has  so  often  to  hunt,  and 
many  times  in  vain,  for  the  signature  on  a 
bronze,  that  such  prominence  could  not  offend. 

Some  names,  as  you  know,  cling  to  the  mem- 
ory as  surely  as  others  evade  it,  and  whenever 
I  caught  sight  of  the  figure  I  thought  of  its 
moulder,  and  I  used  to  peer  about  in  Art  shops 
for  other  examples  of  Goali's  work.  I  even 
inquired  of  two  or  three  Bond  Street  dealers 
if  they  could  show  me  anything  by  him.  But  I 
was  out  of  luck. 

Goal!?  No,  they  had  nothing  of  his;  not  at 
the  moment.  They  could  show  me  a  figure  by 
Pomeroy.  A  mask  of  Reid  Dick's.  Did  I  care 
for  Wells's  peasants?  Haseltine's  bronze 
horses  ? 

[21] 


Giving  and  Receiving 

I  was  interested,  I  said,  in  Goali.  Figures 
of  merry  romping  children. 

Yes,  yes.  But  at  the  moment  they  had 
nothing. 

In  idle  moments  I  used  to  wonder  what  Goali 
was  like  and  where  he  worked — was  even  now 
working.  Probably  in  Rome.  To  any  one  who 
causes  me  to  think  of  Rome  I  am  grateful,  and 
I  was  grateful  to  Goali.  I  would  sometimes 
fancy  myself  sharing  his  life.  A  walk  in  the 
Pincio  Gardens  before  he  settled  to  work  in  his 
studio  somewhere  off  the  Via  del  Babuino, 
Then  his  modelling,  with  probably  one  of  his 
own  olive-skinned  brood  as  sitter,  and  Signora 
Goali  there  to  keep  it  happy  and  exchange  gos- 
sip with  her  husband.  I  could  see  his  rumpled 
black  hair  and  his  hands  all  over  the  white 
clay. 

They  would  have  lunch  in  their  own  apart- 
ment: spaghetti  (which  the  Goalis,  even  the 
children,  would  all  manage  with  a  careless  dex- 
terity heart-breaking  to  the  self-conscious  Eng- 
lish), perhaps  some  infinitesimal  birds — uccelli 
— on  a  skewer,  and  some  red  wine  and  water; 
and  then  Goali  would  hurry  off  for  coffee  at 
that  noisy  friendly  place  in  the  Corso,  all  of 
whose  frequenters  know  each  other  and  have  so 
much  to  say.  What  is  it  called.''  Oh,  yes, 
Aragno's.  There  he  would  smoke  uncountable 
[22] 


My  Sculptor 

cigarettes  and  glance  at  the  paper  and  laugh 
and  gesticulate  and  discuss. 

After  that,  more  work,  and  then  he  might  (at 
any  rate  I  preferred  that  he  should)  make  for 
the  pallone  court  a  little  way  outside  the  Porta 
del  Popolo  and  win  or  lose  a  few  lire  over  the 
games,  putting  his  money  on  the  giant  hattitore; 
and  at  evening  I  would  see  that  he  dined,  as 
an  event,  with  the  Signora  and  a  few  of  their 
artistic  friends,  at  that  curious  old  restaurant 
in  Trastevere  with  the  long  name  that  begins 
with  "P,"  where  the  fish  is  so  good  and  you 
are  waited  upon  by  a  hunchback  with  sparkling 
eyes. 

Another  time  I  would  make  Goali  a  Florentine 
and  share  his  life  in  his  own  beautiful  city;  and 
one  very  hot  day  I  made  him  a  Venetian  and 
we  bathed  at  the  Lido.  After  all,  he  might 
easily  be  a  Venetian.  In  those  sculpture  shops 
in  the  Piazza  of  San  Marco  such  works  as 
Goali's  are  the  principal  stock-in-trade. 

Everybody  who  came  to  see  me  liked  the 
little  bronze  boy  with  his  chubby  foot  in  the 
air — the  blithe  spirit  of  him  and  his  rounded 
grace. 

"That's  a  jolly  thing,"  tliey  would  say.  "Who 
did  it.^" 

"Ooali,"  1  would  reply,  "The  name's  under- 
neath." 

[23] 


Giving  and  Receiving 

Sometimes  a  guest  would  know  all  about  him. 
Jack  Raynor,  for  instance,  who  early  made 
omniscience  his  hobby,  was  delighted  to  find 
that  I  had  an  example. 

"Oh,  yes:  Goali,"  he  said.  "He's  made  a 
corner  in  children.  Dashed  clever  thing  to  do, 
because  kids  arc  so  popular.  You  get  nice  easy 
lines  too.  I  forget  where  he  comes  from,  either 
Milano  or  Torino,  I  fancy." 

"Are  you  sure?"  I  asked,  a  little  sadly,  for 
I  was  disappointed;  "I  should  so  much  rather 
he  came  from  Rome.  I  think  of  him  as  from 
the  South  anyway.  I  don't  really  see  why  he 
shouldn't  be  a  Neapolitan";  and  as  I  spoke  I 
saw  Goali  loitering  on  the  sea  wall  between 
Naples  and  Posilippo  watching  just  such  a  boy 
as  he  had  modelled  playing  in  the  sun  with 
other  mischievous   little   rogues. 

"I  believe  he's  a  Northerner,"  Jack  Raynor 
replied.     "But  I'll  find  out  for  certain." 

And  then  after  his  long  holiday  Meyrick 
came  back  and  I  had  to  find  rooms  elsewhere. 

"I  hope  you've  been  comfortable,"  he  said, 
"and  all  those  odds  and  ends" — he  included 
his  beloved  articles  of  virtia  with  a  sweeping 
hand — "haven't  bored  you." 

I  reassured  him.  "And  as  for  that  bronze 
baby,"  I  said,  "he's  been  the  apple  of  my  eye." 

"Oh,  the  little  kicking  cherub,"  he  replied. 
[24] 


My  Sculptor 

"Yes,  I  like  that  too;  but  I've  always  rather 
resented  the  football  idea.  He  so  obviously 
represents  the  sheer  joy  of  life  that  it's  silly  to 
give  it  that  title." 

"What  title?"  I  asked. 

"Why,  'goal!'"  he  said. 

"'Goal!'"  I  examined  the  bronze  more 
closely.  "Is  that  'Goal.?'  "  I  asked.  "The  let- 
tering's very  poor,  isn't  it?  The  exclamation 
mark's  exactly  like  an  'I.'  I  always  thought — . 
W^ell,  no  matter  what  I  thought.  Who  do  you 
think  is  the  sculptor?" 

"I  haven't  a  notion,"  he  said.  "It's  unsigned. 
But  I  fancy  it's  English." 

Signor  Goali,  my  evanescent  Italian  friend, 
farewell. 


[25] 


UNO  FIASCONE 

MY  friend  Goali,  even  though  lie  never  lived 
and  modelled,  existed  in  fancy  long 
enough  to  bring  back  very  vividly  old  days  in 
Rome.  In  particular,  those  rooms  over  the  shop 
not  very  far  from  the  famous  flight  of  steps 
where  the  flower-girls  sit  with  their  big  blos- 
soming baskets;  not  very  far  from  the  house 
where  Keats  died. 

When  one  is  in  Rome,  to  do  as  Rome  does 
is  not  enough.  So  I  had  argued.  One  must 
speak  as  Rome  speaks,  too;  otherwise  how  can 
one  have  any  fun?  Of  what  use  to  sit  outside 
Aragno's  if  every  word  trilling  and  rolling  in 
the  circumambient  air  is  incomprehensible? 
How  elucidate  the  titles  of  pictures?  How 
conduct  disputes  with  cabmen,  porters  and 
others  of  the  traveller's  natural  foes?  And 
worse  almost  than  useless  to  meet  the  beautiful 
Roman  ladies ! 

I  determined  therefore  that  I  would  stay  in  a 
polyglot  hotel  only  just  so  long  as  it  took  me  to 
find  rooms  in  a  truly  Roman  house,  where  noth- 
ing but  Italian  was  talked,  and  where  I  should 
be  forced  either  to  overcome  any  natural  lin- 
[26] 


Uno  Fiascone 

guistic  indolence  or  suffer  every  kind  of  dis- 
comfort. Tlius  should  I  learn  the  language. 
All  hotels  are  alike — no  matter  where  they  are 
— and  so  long  as  I  was  in  one  of  them  I  should 
not  acquire  a  single  indigenous  phrase ;  but  in 
rooms  the  vocabulary  would  grow  and  the  syn- 
tax gradually  be  acquired.  That  (I  said)  is 
the  only  way — to  live  in  rooms  among  the 
people. 

I  possessed  a  few  words,  of  course.  One  can- 
not frequent  London  restaurants  and  be  utterly 
ignorant  of  Italian.  But  they  were  very  few, 
and  all,  or  nearly  all,  bore  rather  upon  physical 
requirements  than,  say,  philosophy.  Signor 
Benedetto  Croce's  wisdom  remained  a  sealed 
book  to  me,  although  I  could  make  some  kind 
of  a  success  in  ordering  either  a  collazione  or  a 
pranzo.  But  such  words  as  I  had  were,  so  to 
speak,  single  bricks.  There  was  a  total  lack  of 
mortar.  I  could  command  spaghetti,  but  I  could 
not  then  say,  "I  don't  like  these  spaghetti.  They 
are  insufficiently  cooked.  Perhaps  I  could  have 
something  else  instead."  By  going  into  resi- 
dence in  rooms  in  a  thoroughly  Italian  house  I 
felt  that  all  these  little  defects  would  be  put 
right. 

Cheaper  too. 

Having  decided  upon  the  neighbourhood  I 
preferred — somewhere  near  the  famous  flight  of 

[27] 


Giving  and  Receiving 

steps — I  began  to  look  about  for  plaeards  with 
notiees  of  apartments  to  let.  (I  forget  the 
phrase,  but  I  knew  it  tlicn.)  There  were  many, 
and  I  visited  them  all,  but  some  objection  was 
always  present.  Often  it  was  merely  personal 
distaste  on  my  side,  but  usually  it  was  the 
circumstance  that  English  was  spoken.  Most 
English  people  seeking  rooms  in  Rome  prefer, 
it  seems,  that  their  own  tongue  should  be  the 
only  one  that  is  employed.  Hence  a  smattering 
of  English  was  common  among  the  landladies, 
and  they  freely  boasted  of  it. 

At  last,  however,  I  struck  a  piece  of  good 
fortune.  I  came  to  a  large  and  what  must  have 
been  once  a  patrician  mansion,  with  the  whole 
first  floor  to  let.  The  rooms  were  vast,  with 
high  white  walls  and  cold  red  tiles.  There  was 
a  gigantic  sitting-room,  a  palatial  bedroom,  and 
a  little  annexe  in  which  a  bath  had  been  placed. 
Ancient  and  massive  furniture  was  scattered 
frugally  about.  Outside  the  sitting-room  was  a 
balcony,  over  which  at  the  moment — it  was 
autumn — a  vine  was  clambering,  with  little 
purple  grapes  within  reach  of  an  idle  hand ;  and 
below  was  a  tangled  and  very  foreign  garden. 
Two  centuries  ago  some  important  Roman  had 
lorded  it  here;  to-day  it  was  in  the  tenancy 
of  a  tailor,  or  rather  two  tailors,  a  father  and 
son.  And  it  was  the  father,  an  aged  man  with- 
[28] 


Uno  Fiascone 

out  a  word  of  English,  who  showed  me  round. 
Thoughts  of  Andrea  del  Sarto  made  the  idea  of 
living  at  an  Italian  tailor's  rather  attractive, 
and  as  I  liked  the  place  we  began  to  bar- 
gain. 

This  we  accomplished  with  the  assistance  of 
pencil,  paper  and  a  dictionary;  but  I  need  tell 
no  one  familiar  with  Italy  that  the  old  man 
never  ceased  talking  all  the  time.  The  two 
controlling  words  of  the  discourse  were  figlio 
and  moglie ;  and,  although  as  to  what  he  said 
about  those  two  personages  I  had  no  notion,  I 
was  conscious  that  it  was  something  that  he 
clearly  thought  I  ought  to  know  and  should  like 
to  know. 

I  forget  what  was  decided  upon — how  many 
lire  a  week — but  we  came  to  an  arrangement 
and  I  intimated  that  I  would  bring  my  things 
there  during  the  afternoon  and  settle  in  at  once. 
I  also  paid  a  month  in  advance. 

At  half -past  five,  therefore,  I  arrived  in  a 
loaded  four-wheeler  and  entered  the  tailors' 
shop.  The  old  man  was  delighted  to  see  me 
and  at  once  began  to  call  loud  up  the  stairs. 

In  a  minute  or  so  a  young  woman  hurried 
down  and  greeted  me. 

It  was  his  son's  wife,  his  figUo's  moglie. 

"Good  afternoon,"  she  said.  "I  put  the 
kettle    on    in   kisc   you   wanted   some   tea.      I'm 

[29] 


Givin/T  and  Receiving 

sure  we'll  all  do  our  best  to  mike  you  comfy 
Avhile  3'ou're  'ere." 

The  tailor's  son  had  married  a  girl  from 
Islington ! 

That  was  many  years  ago.  I  am  still  unable 
to  ask  for  something  to  take  the  place  of  under- 
cooked spaghetti. 


[30] 


THE   ITALIAN   IN  ENGLAND 

IN  the  course  of  my  search  for  Italian  conver- 
sation manuals  I  came  upon  one  which  put 
so  strangely  novel  a  complexion  on  our  own 
tongue  that,  though  it  was  not  quite  what  I  was 
seeking,  I  bought  it.  To  see  ourselves  as  others 
see  us  is  notoriously  a  difficult  operation;  but 
to  hear  ourselves  as  Italians  hear  us  is  by  this 
little  book  made  quite  easy.  Every  one  knows 
the  old  story  of  the  Italian  who  entered  an 
East-bound  omnibus  in  the  Strand  and  petrified 
the  conductor  by  asking  to  be  put  down  at 
Kay-ahp-see-day.  Well,  this  book  was  perhaps 
built  up  on  the  bitterness  of  that  experience. 

But  its  special  attraction  is  the  personality 
of  the  protagonist  as  it  is  revealed  by  his  vari- 
ous conversations  and  remarks.  Most  of  us 
who  are  not  linguists  confine  our  conversations 
in  foreign  places  to  the  necessities  of  life,  rarely 
leaving  the  beaten  track  of  bread  and  butter, 
knives  and  forks,  the  times  of  trains,  cab  fares, 
the  way  to  the  station,  the  way  to  the  post- 
office,  hotel  prices  and  washing  lists.  But  this 
Italian  in  Kiiglaud  is  intre})id.  He  has  no  such 
^eluctanc(^s.   lie  embroiders   and  dilates.  Where 

1311 


Giving  and  Receiving 

we  in  Italy  would  at  the  most  say  to  the 
cameriere,  "Portaci  una  tazza  di  caffe,"  and 
think  ourselves  lucky  to  get  it,  he  lures  the 
London  waiter  to  invite  a  disquisition  on  tlie 
precious  berry. 

Thus,  he  begins:  "Coffi  is  ti-marchebl  for  iz 
vere  stim-iuletin  prdpelte.  Du  ju  no  hau  it  uos 
discdvvard?" 

The  waiter  very  promptly  and  properly  say- 
ing, "No  Sor,"  the  Italian  unloads  as  follows: 
"Uel,  at  uil  tel  ju  tliet  iZ  discbvvare  is  sed  tu 
hev  bin  dchesciont  bai  thi  folloin  sorcomstanZ. 
Somgots,  hu  brauS-t  dp-on  thi  plent,  from  huicc 
thi  coffi  sids  aT  gathaVd,  ueaY  observ-d  bai  thi 
gothaVds  tu  bi  echstdingle  uechful,  end  ofn  tu 
chepaV  ebaut  in  thi  nait;  thi  praiot  Ov  e  neba,rin 
mdnnasterB,  uiscin  tu  chip  his  monchs  euech  et 
theaT  mattins,  traid  if  thi  coffi  ud  prodiuS  thi 
sem  effecht  dp-on  them,  es  it  uos  observ-d  tu  du 
dp-on  thi  gotS;  thi  sdch-ses  ov  his  echsperiment 
led  tu  thi  appresciescion  ov  iZ  valliu." 

A  little  later  a  London  bookseller  has  the 
temerity  to  place  some  new  fiction  before  our 
author,  but  pays  dearly  for  his  rash  act.  In 
these  words  does  the  Italian  let  him  have  it: — 
"Ai  du  not  laich  nov-els  et  61,  bico-S  e  ndv-el  is 
bat  e  fich-tiscios  tet  stof-t  ov  so  mene  fantastical 
dtds  end  nonsensical  ubrds,  huicc  opset  maind 
end  hart.  An-heppQ  tho-S  an-uere  jongh  per- 
[32] 


The  Italian  in  England 

sons,   hu  spend   theaV  prc-scios  taim   in  riding 
nbv-els!     The   du   not  no   thet   ndv-ellists,.u36 
neralle  spichin,  aT  thi  laitest  end  thi  most  huim- 
sical  raitiaXs,  hu  hev  nested  end  nest  theaX  laif 
in  liudnes." 

English  people  abroad  do  not,  as  a  rule,  drop 
aphorisms  by  the  way;  but  this  Italian  mentor 
loves  to  do  so.  Thus,  to  one  stranger  (in  the 
section  devoted  to  Virtues  and  Vices),  he  re- 
marks, "Uithaut  Riligion  ui  sciiid  hi  uorS  then 
bists."  To  another,  "Thi  igotist  spichs  cdntin- 
niualle  bv  himself  end  mechs  himself  thi  sentaT 
dv  evvere  thingh."  And  to  a  third,  "Impolait- 
nes  is  disgostin."  He  is  sententious  even  to  his 
hatter:  "E  het  sciiid  hi  proporsiond  tu  thi  hed 
end  person,  for  it  is  laf-ibl  tu  si  e  laTgg  het 
op-on  e  smol  hed,  end  e  smol  het  op-bn  e  laTgg 
hed." 

But  sometimes  he  goes  all  astray.  He  is,  for 
instance,  desperately  ill-informed  as  to  English 
railway  law.  "In  England,"  he  says,  and  be- 
lieves the  pathetic  fallacy,  "thi  trens  staTt  end 
arraiv  vcre  pbngh-ciiiddle,  bthaV-uais  passen- 
giaTs  hu  arraiv-let  fbr  theaV  bisnes,  cud  siH  thi 
Compa.ne  fbr  dem-egg-S." 

He  is  calm  and  collected  in  an  emergency. 
"Bi  not  efri'd,  Madam"  he  says  to  a  lady  in 
flames,  "thi  fair  hes  cot  jur  gaun.  IJ  daun 
op-bn  thi  floT,  end  ju  uil  put  aut  thi  fair  xvith 

[3.3] 


Giving  and  Receiving 

jur  hends."  His  presence  of  mind  saves  him 
from  using  liis  own  hands  for  the  purpose.  Re- 
sourcefulness is  indeed  as  natural  to  him  as  to 
Sir  Christopher  Wren  in  the  famous  poem. 
"Uilliam  (he  says),  if  enebode  asch-s  for  mi,  ju 
uil  se  thet  ai  seel  be  bech  in  e  fort-nait." 

Finding  himself  in  the  country — perhaps  in 
Epping  Forest — he  becomes  thus  lyrical:  "In 
thi  spring,  neccioT  sims  tu  riviav,  evvere-thingh 
smails.  Thi  erth  is  addrnd  with  grin,  thi  trts 
at  dech-d  uith  livs  end  blossdms.  In  sciort,  thi 
cbntre  is  dilaitful,  thi  medoS  end  thi  guldens  aV 
enameld  uith  flauats.  In  uintaT,  on  thi  contraTe, 
evvere  thingh  lenguiscces,  end  thi  deS  at  verQ 
tidibs.  Ui  chen  scherS-le  go  aut  uith-aut  ghettin 
dorte."  And  again:  "Thi  month  bv  Marcc  is 
uinde.  It  is  suit  tu  slip  in  thi  mbnth  bv  Epril. 
Thi  cbntre  luchs  verB  plesent  in  thi  mbnth  bv 
Me.  The  mo  thi  7nedds  in  Giiin.  It  is  echse- 
dingle  hbt  in  Giiilai." 

Miss  Butterfield  crosses  our  path  for  a  mo- 
ment and  is  gone. 

"Mis  BbttaTfild,"  he  says,  "uil  ju  ghiv  mi  e 
glas  bv  ubtaV,  if  ju  pliS?"  And  that  is  the  end 
of  the  lady.  Or  I  think  so.  But  there  is  just 
a  possibility  that  it  is  she  whom  he  rebukes  in 
a  Coffee  House:  "Mai  diaV,  du  nbt  spich  bv 
pbllitichs  in  e  Coffi-IIaus,  fbr  no  travvellaT,  if 
priudent,  evvaV  tbchs  ebaut  pbllitichs  in  pbb- 
[34] 


The  Italian  in  England 

lick."  And  again  it  may  be  for  Miss  Butter- 
field  that  he  orders  a  charming  present  (first 
saying  it  is  for  a  lady)  :  "Ghiv  mi  thet  rippitaT 
set  uith  rubes,  thet  straich-S  tin  aurS  end  thi 
hdf-aurS." 

Finally  he  embarks  for  Australia  and  quickly 
becomes  as  human  as  the  rest  of  us,  "Thi 
uind,"  he  murmurs  uneasily,  "is  raisin.  Thi  si 
is  vere  rbf.  Thi  mo-scion  bv  thi  Stim-hot 
mech-S  mi  anuel.  Ai  fil  verB  sich.  Mai  hed  is 
dtZZe.  Ai  hev  got  e  hed-ech."  But  he  assures 
a  fellow-passenger  that  there  is  no  cause  for 
fear,  even  if  a  storm  should  come  on.  "Du 
not  hi  alaTmd,"  he  says,  "theaT  is  no  dcngg-aT. 
Thi  Chep-ten  bv  this  Stim'-aT  is  e  vere  clevaV 
men. 

His  last  words,  addressed  apparently  to  the 
rest  of  the  passengers  as  they  reach  Adelaide, 
are  these:  "Let  bs  mech  hest  end  go  tu  thi 
Cbstbm-IfauS  tu  hev  aur  Ibgh-eggS  ech-samint. 
In  Ostrelia,  thi  Cbstbm-HauS  OffiisaTs  aV  nbt 
hbtte,  bat  vere  polait." 


[35] 


THE  EIGHT  CITIES 

ENGLAND  has,  officially  and  collectively, 
such  decided  views  as  to  the  immorality  or 
undesirability  of  wagering  and  games  of  chance 
that,  although  most  of  us  put  and  take,  bet,  and 
play  cards  for  money,  to  do  any  of  these  things 
anywhere  but  in  a  licensed  "place,"  such  as 
part  of  a  racecourse,  or  in  private  in  a  drawing- 
room  or  a  club,  is  an  offence  against  good  morals 
and  punishable  by  law.  Right  or  wrong  is 
purely  a  matter  of  locality! 

Since  the  English  always  enjoy  the  luxury 
of  two  consciences,  one  individual  and  one  civic, 
such  odd  discrepancies  between  our  personal 
and  our  national  opinions  will  persevere,  and 
we  meanwhile  shall  continue  to  enjoy  the  re- 
spect which  the  rest  of  the  world  entertains  for 
elasticity  and  adaptivity.     No  doubt  of  that. 

Having  recently  been  watching  Italy  at  its 
all-the-year-round  amusement,  so  profitable  to 
the  revenue,  of  Lotto,  and  witnessed  so  little 
resultant  distress  and  calamity,  I  am  wondering 
if  Lotto  might  not  be  introduced  here  as  an 
example  of  taxation  without  tears.  That  it  is 
unlikely  to  be,  I  know,  even  in  a  country  where 
[36] 


The  Eight  Cities 


*» 


gambling  by  newspaper  coupons  and  gambling 
through  turf  commission  agents  (who  are  al- 
lowed to  advertise  in  the  papers)  is  encouraged, 
although  poor  little  street-corner  bookmakers 
are  hurried  before  the  magistrate.  Nor  am  I 
sure  that  I  want  the  acclimatization  of  Lotto; 
but  I  should  like  England  to  come  out  into  the 
open  about  gambling  generally.  Our  present 
state  of  humbug  is  very  disgusting. 

Let  me,  however,  describe  Lotto. 

Every  Saturday  in  the  eight  principal  cities 
of  Italy — Rome,  Naples,  Bari,  Venice,  Genoa, 
Florence,  Turin,  and  Milan — at  two  o'clock,  in 
some  public  place,  a  company  assembles,  con- 
sisting of  three  or  four  officials  and  a  minute 
charity  schoolboy.  (I  may  not  have  the  details 
of  the  ceremony  exactly  right,  but  I  am  near 
them.)  One  official  holds  above  his  head  a 
well-shaken  box  containing  the  numbers  from 
one  to  (I  believe)  ninety.  Another  holds  above 
his  head  a  dish.  Then  the  little  boy,  who  is  very 
likely  blindfolded,  mounts  a  chair,  and,  reaching 
up,  takes  out  a  number  from  the  box  and  places 
it  in  the  other  receptacle,  and  so  on  until  he  has 
taken  five.  Another  citizen,  utterly  above 
suspicion,  then,  in  the  full  view  of  such  on- 
lookers as  have  gatlicrcd,  collects  and  announces 
these  five  numbers,  and  they  are  given  to  the 
press  for  immediate  publication.     All  the  fore- 

[37] 


Givinof  and  Receiving 

going  precautions,  I  should  say,  are  taken  to 
prevent  the  possibility  of  any  of  the  numbers 
being  previously  known,  or  the  possibility  of 
any  substitution. 

That  is  what  has  happened,  say,  in  Milan,  to 
ascertain  what  Milan's  five  numbers  are.  Pre- 
cisely similar  means  have  meanwhile  been  taken 
in  Rome,  Naples,  Bari,  Turin,  Venice,  Florence 
and  Genoa  to  obtain  five  numbers  each.  The 
result  is  as  soon  as  possible  tabulated  in  every 
Banco  di  Lotto  window  for  the  lucky  to  gloat 
over  and  the  unlucky  (who,  I  need  hardly  say, 
are  more  numerous)  to  deplore  to  the  mur- 
mured accompaniment,  "If  only  I  had " 

We  must  now  go  backwards  and  see  what  has 
been  happening  all  over  Italy  from  morning  to 
night  ever  since  the  previous  Monday.  To  the 
various  Government  offices  (you  have  seen  little 
shops  called  Banco  di  Lotto  constantly  in  Ital- 
ian streets  everywhere),  the  people  have  been 
flocking,  all  intent  on  the  precarious  task  of 
finding  numbers  that  will  come  up  on  the  fol- 
lowing Saturday  afternoon,  and  putting  money 
on  them  for  purposes  of  gain.  Every  one  has  a 
flutter  at  Lotto  at  some  time  or  other;  many 
people  make  an  effort  every  week.  The  insti- 
tution might  almost  be  called  the  silver  lining 
of  life.  You  can  have  as  many  chances  to  win 
as  you  like  to  pay  for,  and  arrange  your  bets 
[38] 


The  Eight  Cities 

as  you  will.  You  may  try  to  name  the  numbers 
for  all  the  eight  towns,  but  the  odds  here  would 
be  so  great  that  the  Italian  Exchequer  could 
hardly  pay  you  if  you  won. 

To  get  all  five  numbers  right  for  one  town  is 
worth  a  fortune,  and  it  has  only  once  or  twice 
been  done.  Tlie  ordinary  single  bet  is  on  three 
numbers  for  one  town,  the  odds  against  which 
are  refreshingly  heavy,  but  most  people  distrib- 
ute their  numbers  over  all  the  eight — the  rota, 
as  it  is  called — or,  perhaps,  only  three  of  them. 
The  lowest  amount  that  can  be  ventured  is 
twenty-five  centisimi — which  used  to  be  just 
under  two-pence,  but.  is  now  (1922)  nearer  a 
halfpenny.  As  I  say,  this  wagering  has  been 
going  on  all  the  week,  and  all  classes  of  society 
are  represented,  either  in  person  or  by  deputy. 
The  priests  are  great  hands  at  it.  But  the  real 
congestion  is  to  be  seen  on  Saturday  morning, 
because  the  superstitious  believe  in  waiting  till 
the  last  moment,  always  hoping  for  further 
light  from  the  gambler's  heaven. 

At  two  the  offices  close,  and  then  life  becomes 
a  feverish  blank  until  the  newspaper  boys  begin 
to  rush  through  the  streets  with  the  fatal  results 
from  the  eight  cities.  The  winnings,  however, 
are  not  paid  until  Monday,  and  tlien  only  the 
smaller  ones.  For  a  real  coup  to  be  liquidated 
the  winner  must  wait,  because  Italy  knows  just 

[39] 


Giving  and  Receiving 

as  well  as  we  do  what  red  tape  is,  even  though 
she  may  lack  our  glaring  inconsistencies. 

I  used  just  now  the  phrase,  "the  supersti- 
tious," as  though  there  were  some  followers  of 
the  Lotto  gleam  distinguished  by  possessing 
superstition  as  against  others  who  have  none. 
That  was,  of  course,  absurd,  because  all  of  them 
are  superstitious.  In  the  unceasing  search  for 
lucky  numbers — for  hints  and  suggestions — 
civilisation  and  nature  are  equally  ransacked. 
Everything  has  numerical  connotation,  and  espe- 
cially dreams.  There  is  even  a  big  book — 
usually  kept  in  the  kitchen,  but  frequently  sent 
for  to  be  consulted  "upstairs" — wliich  is  alpha- 
betically arranged,  giving  all  the  dreams  that  a 
sensible  Italian  gambler  is  likely  to  have,  with 
their  corresponding  numbers.  Then  there  are 
lucky-number  providers,  such  as  Capuchin 
monks  and  hunchbacks.  Many  people  when 
they  go  to  be  blessed  by  the  Pope  take  a  scheme 
of  numbers  with  them,  because  when  the  Pope 
blesses  you  his  blessing  extends  to  all  that  you 
have  upon  you.  Or  so  it  is  thought.  Other 
persons  find  their  inspiration  in  dates,  such  as 
the  birthday  of  a  lover;  in  the  numbers  of  rail- 
way compartments  and  cabs ;  in  hours  and  min- 
utes, such  as  the  exact  time  at  which  they  are 
happiest;  in  the  ages  of  chance  acquaintances; 
[40] 


The  Eiffht  Cities 


^fc> 


and,  in  short,  in  a  thousand  and  one  of  the 
capricious  ways  that  only  gamblers  know. 

To  those  who  can  aiford  it,  Lotto  is  an  amus- 
ing enough  experience.  To  the  poor  I  have  no 
doubt  it  is  a  snare,  but  not  a  very  perilous  one. 
Watching  the  faces  of  the  eager  scanners  of 
Saturday  afternoon  papers,  I  used  sometimes  to 
see  some  very  dazed  and  forlorn  expressions, 
but  nothing  really  tragic.  More  unhappiness,  I 
fancy,  could  be  suffered  during  the  week  by  the 
undecided  from  their  doubts  as  to  whether 
twenty-one  was  not  wiser  than  twenty,  than  on 
Saturday,  from  missing  the  prize.  Wherever 
bets  are  made,  whether  on  thoroughbreds  or  on 
numbers,  these  unfortunates  are  to  be  found — 
the  most  anxious  and  joyless  of  all  the  votaries 
of  excitement. 

Italy's  passion  for  Lotto  may  not  be  more 
fierce  than  our  own  for  betting  on  horses ;  but  it 
is  more  desirable,  for,  as  I  say,  it  has  the  merit 
of  being  open,  and  also  the  State  profits  by 
it,  whereas  our  State,  so  long  as  it  refuses  to 
countenance  the  pari-mutuel  system,  gains,  from 
racing,  nothing. 

A  sidciiglit  on  the  universality  of  betting  in 
puritanical  England  was  mine  the  other  day 
during  a  visit  to  the  country. 

"What  strange   things   words   are !"   said   my 

[41] 


Giving  and  Receiving 

hostess  as  we  strolled  along  the  herbaceous 
border. 

"How  do  you  mean?"  I  asked. 

"Well,"  she  said,  "I  have  a  man  and  his  wife 
to  help  here,  and  when  work  is  slack  the  man  is 
allowed  to  take  any  small  job  he  can  find.  After 
breakfast  this  morning  I  put  to  the  wife  the 
most  natural  and,  on  the  face  of  it,  most  un- 
ambiguous question  in  the  world.  I  said,  'What 
is  your  husband  doing  to-day.''' 

"It  never  occurred  to  me  that  there  could  be 
more  than  one  way  of  taking  such  a  form  of 
words  as  that.  But  there  is.  For  what  do  you 
think  she  replied?  She  said,  'I  can't  remember 
the  name.  Ma'am,  but  he  wrote  it  on  a  piece  of 
paper  and  told  me  to  give  it  to  the  milkman  and 
the  grocer's  boy.  The  three-thirty,  he  said. 
Each  way.'  " 


[42] 


A  FORERUNNER  OF  D'ANNUNZIO 

D'ANNUNZIO  is  not  the  only  liberator  who 
entered  Fiume.  I  was  there  myself  in 
1889,  in  the  same  role,  but  with  less  ambition. 
Nor  did  I  arrive  in  a  motor  car — it  could  not 
be  done  in  those  distant  days- — but  in  a  tramp 
steamer. 

Fiume  is  a  white  and  yellow  town,  built  along 
the  narrow  strip  of  flat  shore  or  clinging  to  the 
sides  of  the  mountains.  It  is  divided  in  interest 
between  the  sea  and  the  soil,  half  the  place  be- 
ing concerned  with  shipping  and  the  harbour, 
and  the  other  half  with  vineyards.  There  is, 
however,  a  little  interchange,  for  the  peasants 
must  descend  the  slopes  in  order  to  get  their 
wine  to  the  ships,  wliile  sailors  who  wish  to  re- 
turn thanks  for  safety  during  tempests,  or  to 
ensure  a  prosperous  voyage,  have  to  climb  high 
above  the  town  to  a  ledge  on  which  the  mariners* 
chapel  is  perched.  Hire,  if  they  are  thinking 
only  of  the  future,  they  merely  light  a  candle, 
but  if  they  have  had  a  narrow  escape  they  de- 
posit a  votive  offering,  which  chiefly  takes  the 
form  of  a  crude  but  vivid  oil  painting  of  a  vessel 
under  the  direst  difliculties,  amid  boiling  indigo 

[43] 


Giving  and  Receiving 

waves,  with  lier  name  intensely  visible,  while  in 
one  of  the  top  corners,  set  in  an  oval  effulgence, 
is  the  Virgin  calmly  surveying  the  storm  and 
seeing  that,  in  spite  of  the  disturbance,  all  is 
well,  or  not  too  ill,  with  her  faithful  follower. 
Several  artists  in  the  town  make  a  living  by 
depicting  these  scenes. 

Outside  the  church  sat  (when  I  was  there) 
an  old  woman  who  sold  charms  against  the 
perils  of  the  deep.  Since  I  bought  some,  for 
myself,  for  the  captain  of  our  ship,  for  the 
mates  and  the  engineers,  and  we  came  safely 
back  to  England,  I  know  that  they  were  all  that 
she  said  of  them. 

Our  ship  was  taking  on  raw  Hungarian  or 
Dalmatian  wine  (which,  by  and  by,  such  is  the 
iniquity  of  vintners,  was  to  be  unloaded  at 
Bordeaux  and  transformed  into  genuine  French 
claret),  and  during  this  process,  with  the  mates 
left  in  charge,  the  captain  and  I  made  little  ex- 
peditions. Just  outside  Fiume,  to  the  north,  is 
the  Whitehead  torpedo  factory ;  and  we  went 
there.  Then  the  road  runs  on  up  the  coast  to 
Abbazia,  a  fashionable  watering-place,  where  the 
bathing  is  done  within  a  space  wired  against  the 
incursion  of  sliarks;  and  we  went  there  in  a 
carriage  and  pair,  and  sat  among  Austrians  eat- 
ing immoderately  of  veal. 

But  it  was  too  hot  for  much  enterprise,  and 
[44] 


A  Forerunner  of  D'Annunzio 

for  the  most  part  we  sat  in  the  shade  and  sipped, 
and  smoked  long  cigars  with  straws  in  them,  or 
played  a  variety  of  billiards  with  no  pockets 
and  little  ninepins  in  the  middle  of  the  table. 

And  what  of  the  liberation?  Ah,  yes,  but  it 
was  so  small  a  deed  (compared  with  Gabriele's) 
that  I  was  hoping  you  had  forgotten  about  it. 
However,  since  it  happened,  and  at  Fiume, 
perhaps  I  had  better  tell. 

One  afternoon,  after  walking  a  little  way  out 
of  the  town,  we  came  to  a  retired  cottage  inn, 
with  tables  under  its  trees,  and  decided  that  to 
repose  there  would  be  a  more  delectable  pro- 
ceeding than  to  adventure  further.  We  therefore 
sank  into  chairs  and  ordered  something  to  drink 
from  a  woman  whose  very  forbidding  appear- 
ance was  the  only  discordant  note.  So  haggish 
indeed  was  she  that  but  for  our  lassitude  and 
the  pleasantness  of  the  situation  we  should  have 
hurried  on.  Tlie  wine,  however,  was  refreshing, 
and  the  captain,  wlio  was  a  great  performer  on 
the  monologue,  resumed  his  narrative,  either  of 
a  triumph  of  navigation  or  of  love  (his  two 
themes),  I  forget  which.  But  while  he  talked 
on,  and  tlie  Adriatic,  spreading  itself  as  a  mirror 
to  the  sun,  increased  the  heat,  my  attention 
strayed  and  I  became  aware  of  a  fluttering  beat- 
ing noise  near  by  and  little  distressful  eliirps, 
and  I  saw  that,  nailed  to  the  cottage  wall,  by  tlie 

[45] 


Giving  and  Receiving 

door,  in  the  full  sunliglit,  was  a  tiny  wooden 
cage,  such  as  is  made  for  birds  to  be  carried  in, 
not  to  dwell  in,  and  in  it  was  a  rebellious  and 
very  unhappy  goldfinch.  The  poor  thing  flung 
itself  from  side  to  side  of  its  narrow  prison  in 
a  disorder  which  was  rapidly  becoming  a  frenzy. 

The  woman  emerging  at  this  moment,  I  left 
my  seat  and  made  her  look  at  the  wretched 
captive ;  but  she  only  laughed,  and  when  I 
would  have  unhooked  the  cage  to  place  it  out 
of  the  sun  she  stopped  me  with  a  malignant 
gesture. 

Very  well,  there  was  nothing  to  be  done  but 
what  D'Annunzio  would  have  done.  I  had  to 
employ  craft  and  address.  Waiting  till  the 
harridan  was  well  within  the  house  again,  I 
advanced  to  the  cage,  opened  it  and  watched 
the  goldfinch  dart  out  and  fly  thankfully  away ; 
and  then  we  also  took  to  our  wings,  the  captain 
not  with  less  fear  than  I,  but  unsustained  by 
any  of  the  moral  enthusiasm  which  seemed  to 
me  my  due.  He  had,  however,  to  retire  equally 
fast,  the  heat  being  forgotten  in  the  necessity 
for  escape  from  that  terrifying  monster  the  inn- 
keeper. 

When  we  considered  it  safe  we  sat  by  the 
roadside  to  rest,  and  there  exchanged  felicita- 
tions on  the  fortunate  circumstance  that  we 
sailed  the  next  day.  I  was  rather  hoping  for  a 
[46] 


A  Forerunner  of  D'Anniinzio 

cordial  word  or  two  about  my  courage  and 
humanity;  but  none  came.  "Let  me  see,"  said 
the  captain,  "where  was  I  when  you  interrupted 
me  to  interfere  with  that  bird?" 


[47] 


THE    EVOLUTION    OF    WHIMSICALITY 

THE  title  shall  stand,  because  I  like  it;  but 
it  does  not  say  all.  By  whimsicality,  I 
ouglit  to  explain,  I  mean,  broadly,  modern 
humour,  as  distinguished  from  that  which  we 
find  before  the  end  of  the  eighteenth  century. 
It  may  comprise  all  the  earlier  forms,  but  it  is 
different,  perhaps  in  its  very  blending,  and  it 
has  one  ingredient  which  the  older  forms  lacked, 
and  which,  like  the  onion  in  the  bowl  of  salad, 
as  celebrated  by  one  of  its  masters — Sydney 
Smith — "animates  the  whole."  I  refer  to  its 
unreluctant  egoism.  It  is  this  autobiographical 
quality  that  is  its  most  noticeable  characteristic 
— the  author's  side-long  amused  canonization  of 
himself;  his  frankly  shameless  assumption  that 
if  a  thing  is  interesting  to  the  writer  it  must 
therefore  be  of  interest  to  the  world.  And  with 
the  development  of  whimsicality  (as  I  call  it) 
are  bound  up  also  the  development  of  slippered 
ease  in  literature  and  the  stages  by  which  we 
have  all  become  funnier.  To-day  every  one  can 
grow  the  flower,  with  more  or  less  success,  for 
every  one  has  the  seed. 

Although  the  new  humour  comprises  the  old, 
[48] 


The  Evolution  of  Wiimsicality 

it  has  never  reached  its  predecessor's  heights  in 
certain  of  its  branches.  Only  in  parody  and 
nonsense  have  we  gained.  There  has,  for  exam- 
ple, been  no  modern  satire  to  equal  Pope's  and 
Dryden's  and  Swift's;  no  irony  more  biting 
than  Swift's  and  Defoe's,  or  more  delicate  and 
ingratiating  than  Goldsmith's ;  no  such  cynical 
or  grotesque  humour  as  Shakespeare  exults  in ; 
no  rough-and-tumble  buffoonery  like  Fielding's 
and  Smollett's.  In  nonsense  and  in  parody 
alone  we  have  improved,  the  old  days  having 
nothing  to  offer  to  be  compared  with  Lewis 
Carroll  or  Calverley ;  but  in  burlesque  we  cannot 
compete  with  "The  Rehearsal,"  "The  Beggar's 
Opera,"  or  "The  Critic." 

But  all  those  authors  were  impersonal.  They 
suppressed  themselves.  We  have  no  evidence  as 
to  whether  Shakespeare  was  more  like  Falstaff 
or  Prospero;  probably  he  resembled  both,  but 
we  cannot  know.  Goldsmith  is  the  only  auto- 
biographer  among  them,  but  even  he  always 
affected  to  be  some  one  else ;  he  had  not  the 
courage  of  the  first  person  singular,  and  Steele 
and  Addison,  eminently  fitted  as  they  were  to 
inaugurate  the  new  era,  clung  to  tradition  and 
employed  a  stalking  horse.  Even  Sterne  only 
pretended  to  be  himself,  although  whimsicality 
in  the  strictest  meaning  of  the  word  undoubt- 
edly was  his. 

[49] 


Givinpf  and  Receiving 

The  period  wlien  wliimsicality  came  in — the 
end  of  the  eighteenth  and  beginning  of  the 
nineteenth  century — was  the  period  when  a 
return  to  nature  in  poetry  was  in  gestation ;  a 
movement  beginning  subconsciously  with 
Cow^er  and  Crabbe  and  finding  its  most  elo- 
quent conscious  prophets  in  Wordsworth  and 
Coleridge^  and  its  gospel  in  the  preface  to  the 
second  edition  of  the  Lyrical  Ballads  in  1800. 
Coleridge  and  Wordsworth  were  the  great  wave. 
Beneath  the  impressive  surface  of  the  ocean 
which  they  crested,  in  the  calm  waters  where 
letter  writing  is  carried  on  (if  I  may  be  par- 
doned not  the  best  of  metaphors),  the  other 
development  was  in  progress;  correspondents 
were  becoming  more  familiar.  I  would  not 
allege  that  humour  and  the  epistolary  art  were 
strangers  until,  say,  1780 — there  is,  indeed, 
very  good  evidence  to  the  contrary — but  it  was 
somewhere  about  that  time  that  a  more  conscious 
facetiousness  crept  in,  and  just  as  Wordsworth's 
revolutionary  methods  held  the  field  and  ousted 
the  heightened  conventional  language  of  the 
eighteenth-century  poets,  so  did  this  new  and 
natural  levity  gain  strength.  Hitherto  men  had 
divided  themselves  strictly  between  their  light 
and  their  grave  moods.  But  now  gradually 
these  moods  were  allowed  to  mingle,  and  in 
course  of  time  quite  serious  people  let  their 
[50] 


The  Ev^olutlon  of  Whimsicality- 
pens  frisk  as  merrily  as  the  professional  wags. 
It  was  left  for  Charles  Lamb  so  to  confuse 
deshabille  and  full  dress  that  ever  after  him  no 
author  had  any  rigid  need  to  keep  them  apart; 
but  Lamb  was  not  the  fountain  head.  He  had  a 
predecessor;  and  we  come  to  that  predecessor, 
the  real  father  of  whimsicality,  the  first  writer 
of  our  modern  Immorous  prose,  in  a  phrase  in 
a  letter  of  Lamb's  on  December  5,  1796 — thus 
keeping  the  chain  intact.  Writing  to  Coleridge, 
Lamb  refers  to  Cowper's  "divine  chit-chat,"  and 
although  that  phrase  no  doubt  applied  to  "Table 
Talk"  and  "The  Task"  and  other  poetical 
monologues,  we  may  here  borrow  it  to  describe 
the  ease  and  fun  and  unaffected  egoism  which 
in  Cowper's  letters  are  for  the  first  time  found 
in  perfection  in  English  literature.  As  early 
as  1778  he  was  writing  like  this  (to  William 
Unwin) : 

We  arc  indebted  to  you  for  your  political  intelli- 
gence, hut  have  it  not  in  our  power  to  pay  you  in 
kind.  Proceed,  however,  to  give  us  such  information 
as  cannot  hf  learned  from  tlie  newspapers:  and  when 
anything  arises  at  Olney,  that  iu  not  in  the  thread- 
hare  style  of  daily  oceurrenceB,  you  shall  hear  of  it 
in  return.  Nothing  of  this  sort  has  happened  lately, 
except  that  a  lion  was  imported  here  at  the  fair, 
seventy  years  of  age,  and  was  as  tame  as  a  goose. 
Your  motlier  an<l  I  saw  him  emhrnce  his  keeper  with 
his  paws,  and  lick  his  face.  Otliers  saw  him  receivo 
his  head  in  his  mouth,  and  restore  it  to  him  again 

[51] 


Giving  and  Receiving 

vnhurt — a  sight  we  chose  not  to  be  favoured  with, 
\)ut  rather  advised  the  honest  man  to  discontinue 
the  practice — a  practice  hardly  reconcilable  to  pru- 
dence, unless  he  had  a  head  to  spare. 

In   1779,  again  to  William  Unwin: 

I  remember, —  (the  fourth  and  last  thing  I  mean 
to  remember  on  this  occasion),  that  Sam  Cox,  the 
Counsel,  walking  by  the  seaside  as  if  absorbed  in 
deep  contemplation,  was  questioned  about  what  he  was 
musing  on.  He  replied,  "I  was  wondering  that  such 
an  almost  infinite  and  unwieldy  element  should  pro- 
duce a  sprat." 

And  again,  concerning  a  man  named  Twopenny: 

It  seems  a  trifle,  but  it  is  a  real  disadvantage  to 
have  no  better  name  to  pass  by  than  the  gentleman 
you  mention.  Whether  we  suppose  him  settled,  and 
promoted  in  the  army,  the  Church,  or  the  law,  how 
uncouth  the  sound — Captain  Twopenny!  Bishop 
Twopenny!  Judge  Twopenny!  The  abilities  of  Lord 
Mansfield  would  hardly  impart  a  dignity  to  such  a 
name.  Should  lie  perform  deeds  worthy  of  poetical 
panegyric,  liow  difficult  it  would  be  to  ennoble  the 
sound  of  Twopenny! 

Muse!  place  him  high  upon  the  lists  of  Fame, 
The  wondrous  man,  and  Twopenny  his  name  I 

But  to  be  serious,  if  the  French  should  land  in  the 
Isle  of  Thanet,  and  Mr.  Twopenny  should  fall  into 
their  hands,  he  will  have  a  fair  opportimity  to 
frenchify  his  name,  and  may  call  himself  Monsieur 
Deux  Sous;  which,  when  he  comes  to  be  exchanged  by 
Cartel,  will  easily  resume  an  English  form,  and  slide 
naturally  into  Two  Shoes,  in  my  mind  a  considerable 
improvement. 
[52] 


The  Evolution  of  Wliimsicality 

In  1780,  with  a  copy  of  verses,  to  the  same 
correspondent: 

I  shall  charge  you  a  half  penny  apiece  for  every 
copy  I  send  you,  the  short  as  well  as  the  long.  This 
is  a  sort  of  aftercUip  you  little  expected,  but  I  cannot 
possibly  afford  them  at  a  cheaper  rate.  If  tliis  method 
of  raising  money  liad  occurred  to  me  sooner,  I  should 
have  made  the  bargain  sooner;  but  am  glad  I  have 
hit  upon  it  at  last.  It  will  be  a  considerable  en- 
couragement to  my  muse,  and  act  as  a  powerful 
stimulus  to  my  industry.  If  the  American  war  should 
last  much  longer  I  may  be  obliged  to  raise  my  price. 

Such  passages  as  these,  limpid,  unaffected, 
setting  down  daily  trivialities  as  well  and 
amusingly  as  was  in  the  autlior's  power,  seem  to 
me  to  mark,  the  beginnings  of  much  modern 
humour.  There  are  hints  of  the  same  quality 
in  Walpole  and  in  Graj',  but  those  writers  are  of 
their  own  time,  and  to  us  they  are  often  archaic. 
Cowper  was  the  first  to  handle  the  new  prose, 
although  he  did  not  come  out  into  the  open  with 
it.  He  was,  publicly,  a  poet,  and  was  read  for 
his  poetry.  The  innovating  work  that  he  had 
begun,  if  it  was  to  prosper,  needed  a  public 
writer  to  make  it  generally  acceptable,  and  such 
was  Charles  Lamb.  If  Cowper  was  the  father 
of  whimsicality.  Lamb  was  its  chief  popularizer. 

Lamb's  great  discovery  was  that  he  himself 
was  lx;tt<;;r  worth  laying  bare  than  obscuring: 
that  his  memories,  his  impressions,  his  loyalties, 

[53] 


Giving  and  Receiving 

his  dislikes,  liis  doubts,  liis  beliefs,  his  preju- 
dices, his  enthusiasms,  in  short,  everything  that 
was   his,   were   suitable  material   for  literature. 
Pope  said  that  the  proper  study  of  mankind  was 
man;  Lamb  amended  this  to — the  proper  study 
of  each  man  is  himself.     If  you  know  yourself 
and  have  confidence  in  your  moods  and  general 
sagacity,  a  record   is   worth   making.     Addison 
and  Steele  had  even  better  opportunities  to  be 
disclosing  than  Lamb:  they  had  a  daily  paper, 
and    could    write    every    morning   exactly    what 
they  liked,  and  often  must  have  been  so  hard 
put  to  it  for  subjects  that  autobiography  would 
seem  to  be  the  easy  way;  yet  they  were  always 
inventing.     The   time    for   personal   confidences 
had  not  come.     But  whether  Lamb  would  have 
been   as   he   is   without  these    forerunners   is    a 
question.     In    so   far   as   the   modernity   of   his 
humour  is  concerned  I  think  that  he  would,  but 
no   doubt   his   early   contributions    to    The   Re- 
flector, some  ten  years  before  EUa,  were  based 
on  the  old  models.     Years,  however,  before  he 
wrote  those    (in    1811)    for   print,  he   had,   for 
private   friendly   eyes   only,   penned   such   pas- 
sages in  his  letters  as  this  (in  April,  1800,  to 
Coleridge)  : 

You  read  ua  a  dismal   liomily  upon   "Realities!" 
We  know,  quite  as  well  as  you  do,  what  are  shadows 
and  what  are  realities.     You,  for  instance,  when  you 
[54] 


The  Evolution  of  Whimsicality 

are  over  your  fourth  or  fifth  jorum,  chirping  about 
old  school  occurrences,  are  the  best  of  realities.  Shad- 
ows are  cold,  thin  things,  that  have  no  warmth  or 
grasp  in  them.  Miss  Wesley  and  her  friend,  and  a 
tribe  of  authoresses  that  come  after  you  here  daily, 
and,  in  defect  of  you,  hive  and  cluster  upon  us,  are 
the  shadows.  You  encouraged  that  mopsey.  Miss 
Wesley,  to  dance  after  you,  in  the  hope  of  having  her 
nonsense  put  into  a  nonsensical  Anthology.  We  have 
pretty  well  shaken  her  off,  by  that  simple  expedient 
of  referring  her  to  you;  but  there  are  more  burrs  in 
the  wind. 

I  came  home  t'other  day  from  business,  hungry  as 
a  hunter,  to  dinner,  with  notliing,  I  am  sure,  of  the 
author  but  hunger  about  me,  and  whom  found  I 
closeted  with  Mary  but  a  friend  of  this  Miss  Wesley 
— one  Miss  Benje,  or  Benjey — I  don't  know  how  she 
spells  her  name.  I  just  came  in  time  enough,  I  be- 
lieve, luckily,  to  prevent  them  from  exchanging  vows 
of  eternal  friendship.  It  seems  she  is  one  of  your 
authoresses,  tliat  you  first  foster,  and  then  upbraid 
us  with.  But  I  forgive  you.  "The  rogue  has  given 
me  potions  to  make  me  love  him."  Well ;  go  she 
would  not,  nor  step  a  step  over  our  threshold,  till 
we  had  promised  to  come  and  drink  tea  with  her 
next  night.  I  had  never  seen  her  before,  and  could 
not  tell  who  the  devil  it  was  that  was  so  familiar. 

We  went,  however,  not  to  be  imjxjlite.  Her  lodg- 
ings are  up  two  pairs  of  stairs  in  East  Street.  Tea 
and  coffee,  and  macaroons — a  kind  of  cake  I  much 
love.  We  sat  down.  Presently  Miss  Benj<^  broke  tlie 
Bilence,  by  declaring  herself  quite  of  a  different  opin- 
ion from  DTsraeli,  wlio  siipposes  the  differences  of 
human  intellfct  to  be  tlie  mere  tllVct  of  organization. 
She  begged  to  know  my  opinion.  I  attempted  to 
carry  it  off  witli  a  pun  upon  f)rgan ;  but  that  went 
off  very  flat.  Slie  immediately  conceived  a  very  low 
opinion   of   my   metaphysics;    and   turning   round   to 

[55] 


Giving  and  Receiving 

Mary,  put  some  question  to  her  in  French — posaibly 
having  heard  that  neither  Mary  nor  1  understood 
Freneh.  The  explanation  that  took  place  occasioned 
some  embarrassment  and  much  wondering. 

She  tlion  fell  into  an  insulting  conversation  about 
the  comparative  genius  and  merits  of  all  modern 
languages,  and  concluded  with  asserting  that  the 
Saxon  was  esteemed  the  purest  dialect  in  Germany. 
From  thence  she  passed  into  the  subject  of  poetry; 
where  I,  who  had  hitherto  sat  mute  and  a  hearer 
only,  humbly  hoped  I  might  now  put  in  a  word  to 
some  advantage,  seeing  that  it  was  my  own  trade  in 
a  manner.  But  I  was  stopped  by  a  round  assertion 
that  no  good  poetry  had  appeared  since  Dr.  Johnson's 
time.  It  seems  the  Doctor  has  suppressed  many 
hopeful  geniuses  that  way  by  the  severity  of  his 
critical  strictures  in  his  Lives  of  the  Poets.  I  here 
ventured  to  question  the  fact,  and  was  beginning  to 
appeal  to  names,  but  I  was  assured  "it  was  certainly 
the  case."  Then  we  discussed  Miss  More's  book  on 
education,  which  I  had  never  read.  .  .  . 

It  being  now  nine  o'clock,  wine  and  macaroons 
were  again  served  round,  and  we  parted,  with  a 
promise  to  go  again  next  week  and  meet  the  Miss 
Porters,  who,  it  seems,  have  heard  much  of  Mr. 
Coleridge,  and  wish  to  meet  us,  because  we  arc  his 
friends.  I  have  been  preparing  for  the  occasion.  I 
crowd  cotton  in  my  ears.  I  read  all  the  reviews  and 
magazines  of  the  past  month  against  the  dreadful 
meeting,  and  I  hope  by  these  means  to  cut  a  tolerable 
second-rate  figure. 

I  can  find  nothing  quite  like  that,  so  humor- 
ous, and  rapid,  in  any  writer  before  Lamb. 
There  is  hardly  an  antiquated  word  in  it.  But 
what  is  more  interesting  about  it  is  that  no  one 
hitherto  would  have  thought  the  narration 
[56] 


The  Evolution  of  Wliimsicality 

worth  while.     That^  perhaps,  is  the  most  sig- 
nificant thing. 

Another  example  from  the  same  year,  1800, 
the  account  of  Joseph  Cottle  (author  of  Alfred) 
being  gradually  wooed  from  his  grief  for  his 
brother  Amos  Cottle's  death,  and  I  shall  have 
quoted  enough. 

I  suppose  you  have  heard  of  the  death  of  Amoa 
Cottle. 

I  paid  a  solemn  visit  of  condolence  to  his  brother, 
accompanied  by  George  Dyer,  of  burlesque  memory. 
I  went,  trembling  to  see  poor  Cottle  so  immediately 
upon  the  event. 

He  was  in  black;  and  his  younger  brother  was 
also  in  black. 

Everything  wore  an  aspect  suitable  to  the  respect 
due  to  the  freshly  dead.  For  some  time  after  our 
entrance  nobody  spoke  till  George  modestly  put  in  a 
question,  whether  Alfred  was  likely  to  sell. 

This  was  Lethe  to  Cottle,  and  his  poor  face,  wet 
with  tears,  and  his  kind  eye  brightened  up  in  a  mo- 
ment.   Now  I  felt  it  was  my  cue  to  speak. 

I  had  to  thank  him  for  a  present  of  a  magnificent 
copy,  and  had  promised  to  send  him  my  remarks, — 
the  least  thing  I  could  do;  so  I  ventured  to  suggest, 
that  I  perceived  a  considerable  improvement  he  had 
made  in  his  first  book  since  the  state  in  which  he  first 
read  it  to  me.  Joseph  until  now  had  sat  with  his 
knees  cowering  in  by  the  fireplace,  and  with  great 
difficulty  of  body  shifted  the  same  round  to  the  corner 
of  a  table  where  I  was  sitting,  and  first  stationing 
one  thigh  over  the  other,  which  is  hie  sedentary 
mood,  and  plaeidly  fixing  his  benevolent  face  right 
against  mine,  waited  my  observations. 

At  that  moment  it  came  strongly  into  my  mind, 

[57] 


Giving  and  Receiving 

that  I  had  got  Uncle  Toby  before  nic,  he  looked  bo 
kind  and  good. 

I  could  not  say  an  unkind  thing  of  Alfred.  So  I 
set  my  memory  to  work  to  recollect  what  was  the 
name  of  Alfred's  Queen,  and  with  some  adroitness 
recalled  the  well-known  sound  to  Cottle's  ears  of 
Alswitha. 

At  that  moment  I  could  perceive  that  Cottle  had 
forgot  his  brother  was  so  lately  become  a  blessed 
spirit.  In  the  language  of  mathematicians,  the 
author  was  as  9,  the  brother  as  1. 

I  felt  my  cue,  and  strong  pity  working  at  the  root 
I  went  to  work,  and  beslabbered  Alfred  with  most 
imqualifiod  praise,  or  only  qualifying  my  praise  by 
the  occasional  politic  interposition  of  an  exception 
taken  against  trivial  faults,  slips,  and  human  imper- 
fections, which,  by  removing  the  appearance  of  insin- 
cerity, did  but  in  truth  heighten  the  relish. 

Perhaps  I  might  have  spared  that  refinement,  for 
Joseph  was  in  a  humour  to  liope  and  believe  all 
thitigs. 

What  I  said  was  beautifully  supported,  cor- 
roborated and  confirmed  by  the  stupidity  of  his 
l)rother  on  my  left  hand,  and  by  George  on  my  right, 
who  has  an  utter  incapacity  of  comprehending  that 
there  can  be  any  tiling  bad  in  poetry. 

All  poems  are  good  poems  to  George;  all  men  are 
fine  genUises. 

So,  what  with  my  actual  memory,  of  which  I  made 
the  most,  and  Cottle's  own  helping  me  out^for  I 
had  really  forgotten  a  good  deal  of  Alfred — I  made 
shift  to  discuss  the  most  essential  part,  entirely  to 
the  satisfaction  of  its  author,  who  repeatedly  declared 
that  he  loved  nothing  better  than  candid  criticism. 
Was  I  a  candid  greyhound  now  for  all  this?  or  did 
I  do  riglit?  I  believe  T  did.  The  effect  was  luscious 
to  my  conscience. 

For  all  the  rest  of  the  evening  Amos  was  no  more 

[58] 


The  Evolution  of  Wliimsicality 

heard  of,  till  George  revived  the  subject  by  inquiring 
whether  some  account  should  not  be  drawn  up  by  the 
friends  of  the  deceased  to  bu  inserted  in  Pliillips' 
Monthly  Obituary;  adding,  that  Amos  was  estimable 
both  for  his  head  and  heart,  and  would  have  made  a 
fine  poet  if  he  had  lived. 

To '  the  expediency  of  this  measure  Cottle  fully 
assented,  but  could  not  help  adding  that  he  always 
thought  that  the  qualities  of  his  brother's  heart  ex- 
ceeded those  of  his  head. 

I  believe  his  brother,  when  living,  had  formed  pre- 
cisely the  same  idea  of  him;  and  I  appreliend  the 
world  will  assent  to  both  judgments. 

One  feels  that  the  man  who  could  be  writing 
with  such  sureness  and  zest  as  that  in  the  year 
1800  ought  to  have  come  to  his  Elia  vein — 
1820 — sooner.  But  the  clock  always  has  to 
strike   first. 

Puns  in  their  absurd  latter-day  form  also 
were  coming  in  in  the  same  decade  that  gave  us 
the  Lyrical  Ballads.  There  had  been  puns  be- 
fore— Shakespeare  has  many,  and  Swift  and 
Doctor  Sheridan  rejoiced  in  exchanging  them — 
but  they  were  less  light-hearted,  more  verbal ; 
the  pun  with  nonsense  to  it,  such  as  we  asso- 
ciate first  with  Lamb,  is  not  earlier  than  he. 
In  a  magazine  i)uhlishcd  in  1793  (when  Lamb 
was  (tightceri)  I  find  this  fragment  of  history 
gravely  set  forth:  "When  the  seamen  on  board 
the  sliip  of  Christopiicr  Colunibus  came  in  sight 
of   San   Salvador   tlirv   Inirsl  oiil    into   cxiibfraiiL 

[59] 


Giving  and  Receiving 

mirth  and  jollity.  'The  lads  are  in  a  merry 
key,'  cried  the  commodore.  America  is  now 
the  name  of  half  the  globe."  That  is  not  at  all 
like  the  eighteenth  century,  but  the  century  that 
was  to  produce  Hood  and  H.  J,  Byron  and  F. 
C.  Burnand. 

Before  Elia,  no  one  writing  for  print  had 
assumed  that  his  own  impressions  of  life,  grave 
and  gay,  were  a  sufficient  or  even  a  suitable 
subject.  Such  self-analytical  authors  as  there 
had  been  had  selected  and  garnished  according 
to  the  canons  of  taste  of  their  time.  Lamb  came 
naturally  to  his  task  and  fondled  and  exhibited 
his  ego  with  all  the  ecstasy  of  a  collector  dis- 
playing bric-a-brac  or  first  editions ;  and  ever 
since  then,  acting  upon  his  sanction,  others  have 
been  doing  it.  But  what  has  at  the  moment 
the  most  interest  to  me  is  that  part  of  Lamb's 
legacy  which  embodies  his  freakish  humour; 
it  was  his  willingness  to  be  naturally  funny 
that  has  benefited  so  many  heirs.  I  should  say 
that  his  principal  service  to  other  writers  lay 
in  giving  them,  by  his  example,  encouragement 
to  be  natural,  to  mix  their  comic  fancies  with 
their  serious  thoughts — as  they  are  mixed  in 
real  life.  The  mingled  thread,  he  showed, 
should  never  be  divided. 

The  influence  of  letters  must  not  be  stressed; 
for  the  examples  from  Lamb  were  written  be- 
[60] 


The  Evolution  of  Wliimsicality 

fore  he  could  have  seen  any  of  Cowper's  corre- 
spondence, while  none  of  Lamb's  letters  were 
made  public  until  Talfourd's  memoir  of  him  in 
1837.  But  although  Lamb  could  not  be  in- 
fluenced by  Cowper's  prose  until  1804 — nor 
needed  to  be,  then — he  was  stimulated  by  the 
"divine  chit-chat"  of  his  verse,  which  brought 
a  happy  egoism  into  general  popularity.  He 
then  developed  and  simmered  for  a  couple  of 
decades,  and  the  next  great  event  in  the  evolu- 
tion of  whimsicality  was  the  outcome  of  those 
comparatively  silent  years,  the  Elia  essays  be- 
ginning in  the  London  Magazine  in  1820. 

Thus  we  have  four  notable  years:  1782, 
Cowper's  first  Poems — "Table  Talk,"  etc.; 
1785,  The  Task  (with  "John  Gilpin");  1804, 
new  edition  of  Hayley's  Life  of  Cowper,  with 
correspondence  added;  1820,  Elia  essays  begin. 

I  don't  want  to  suggest  any  conscious  deriva- 
tion from  Lamb  in  modern  writers.  To  begin 
with,  no  writer  who  is  an  imitator  can  be  worth 
anything;  hut  a  writer  can  be  both  an  individual 
and  under  influence.  He  can  move  on  parallel 
lines  with  his  predecessor,  not  intentionally,  but 
through  a  similarity  of  outlook.  It  would  be 
absurd,  in  spite  of  his  own  admission  with  re- 
gard to  sedulous  apishness,  to  say,  for  example, 
that  Stevenson  imitated  Lamb;  but  what  one 
may    contend    is    that    but    for    the    new    easy 

[61] 


Giving  and  Receiving 

familiar  personal  turn  which  Lamb  gave  to  lit- 
erature, Stevenson's  Inland  Voyage  and  Travels 
with  a  Donkey  might  never  have  been  written. 
Their  derivation  is  more  commonly  given  to 
Sterne's  Sentiinental  Journey  and,  in  so  far  as 
form  goes,  possibly  with  accuracy ;  but  although 
the  mould  may  be  from  Sterne,  for  the  nature 
of  the  contents  we  are  far  more  indebted  to 
Lamb.  Sterne  was  an  affected  piece,  posturing 
and  grimacing  too  often ;  but  Lamb,  who  is 
always  divulging,  was  above  pretence,  and  the 
example  which  he  set  to  writers  coming  after 
him  was  courage  to  be  themselves,  and  to  be  all 
of  themselves  all  the  time. 

^Meanwhile,  during  the  period  when  Lamb  was 
writing  Addisonian  exercises  for  The  Reflector, 
and  preparing  to  be  himself  and  nothing  but 
himself  ever  after,  a  little  boy  was  born — the 
year  was  1812,  and  the  date  February  7 — in  an 
obscure  house  in  an  obscure  part  of  Portsmouth. 
His  father  was  a  dockyard  clerk,  named  John 
Dickens,  and  the  little  boy  was  christened 
Charles  John  Huffam,  but  the  John  and  the 
Huffam  quickly  disappeared  and  Charles  only 
remained.  This  boy,  who  was  destined  not  only 
to  delight  the  world  into  which  he  was  projected, 
but  to  create  a  new  world  of  his  own,  was,  I  am 
sure,  fired  by  Lamb's  example.  I  have  seen 
somewhere,  but  cannot  trace  the  reference,  that 
[62] 


The  Evolution  of  Wliimsicality 

among  Dickens's  childish  reading  was  Elia, 
which  had  begun  in  the  London  Magazine  when 
he  was  eight.  The  other  little  Charles  could 
thus  have  read,  at  the  most  impressionable  age, 
the  account  of  Ralph  Bigod,  tlie  Micawberesque 
borrower  of  money,  and  of  Jem  White,  who  had 
such  a  glorious  Dickensian  way  at  the  chimney 
sweeps'  suppers.  Even  genius  often  has  to  be 
put  in  the  right  path.  If  it  is  admitted  that 
Lamb  influenced  Dickens,  then  my  point  is 
firmly  enough  established,  for  Dickens  was  the 
first  really  comic  writer  that  we  have  had,  and 
his  own  influence  must  have  been  endless.  Be- 
fore Dickens,  no  author  had  tried  to  be  as 
funny  as  he  could,  or  at  any  rate  no  author  had 
done  so  with  any  acceptance. 

Cowper,  then,  and  Lamb  (with  Walpole  and 
Gray  as  less  guilty  accomplices)  must  be  con- 
victed of  the  sweet  offence  of  bringing  whim- 
sicality into  literature  and  making  it  all  the 
easier  for  our  o^v-n  artists  in  that  medium  to 
make  a  living;  in  England,  Mr.  Betrbohm  and 
Mr.  Belloc  and  Mr.  Cliestcrton  and  Sir  James 
Barrie,  and  in  America  (to  name  two  only)  Mr. 
Oliver  Herford  and  Mr.  Christopher  Morley. 


[63] 


POINTS  OF  INTEREST 

THE  manager  had  seen  to  it  that  the  party 
of  young  men,  obviously  being  rich,  at  any 
rate  for  this  night,  had  some  of  the  best  attend- 
ance in  the  restaurant.  Several  waiters  had 
been  told  off  specially  to  look  after  them,  the 
least  and  busiest  of  whom  was  little  more  than  a 
boy — a  slender  pale  boy,  who  was  working 
very  hard  to  give  satisfaction.  The  cynic 
might  think — and  say,  for  cynics  always  say 
what  they  think — that  this  zeal  was  the  result 
of  his  youth ;  but  the  cynic  for  once  would  be 
only  partly  right.  The  zeal  also  had  sartorial 
springs,  this  eventful  day  being  the  first  on 
which  the  boy  had  been  promoted  to  full  waiter- 
hood,  and  the  first  therefore  on  which  he  had 
ever  worn  a  suit  of  evening  dress;  which  by 
dint  of  hard  saving  his  family  had  been  able  to 
obtain  for  him.  Wearing  a  uniform  of  such 
dignity,  and  conscious  that  he  was  on  the 
threshold  of  his  career,  he  was  trying  hard  to 
make  good  and  hoping  very  fervently  that  he 
would  get  through  without  any  grease  drops  or 
splashes  to  impair  the  freshness  of  his  new  and 
wonderful  attire. 
[64] 


Points  of  Interest 

The  party  of  young  men,  who  had  been  at  a 
very  illustrious  English  school  together  and  now 
were  either  at  a  university  or  in  the  world,  were 
celebrating  an  annual  event  and  were  very 
merry  about  it.  For  the  most  part  they  had, 
between  the  past  and  the  present,  as  many 
topics  of  conversation  as  were  needed,  but  now 
and  then  came  a  lull,  during  which  some  of  them 
would  look  around  at  the  other  tables,  note  the 
prettier  of  the  girls  or  the  odder  of  the  men 
and  comment  upon  them ;  and  it  chanced  that  in 
such  a  pause  one  of  the  diners  happened  for 
the  first  time  to  notice  with  any  attention  the 
assiduous  young  waiter.  Although  'not  old 
enougli  to  have  given  any  thouglit  to  the  oddity 
of  youth  attending  upon  youth  at  its  meals  in 
this  way — not  old  enough  indeed  to  have  pon- 
dered at  all  upon  the  relations  of  Capital  and 
Labour,  or  of  the  domineering  and  the  servile — 
he  had  reflected  a  good  deal  upon  the  cut  and  fit 
of  clothes,  and  there  was  something  about  the 
waiting-boy's  evening  coat  that  outraged  his 
critical  sense.  Nor  did  the  fact  that  the  other's 
indifferent  tailoring  throw  tlic  perfection  of  his 
own  into  such  brilliant  contrast  (the  similarity 
between  the  livery  of  service  and  the  male  cos- 
tume de  luxe  fostering  tliese  comparisons)  make 
him  any  more  lenient. 

"Did  you  ever  see,"  he  asked  his  neighbour. 


Giving  and  Receiving 

"such  a  coat-collar  as  that  waiting  Johnnie's? 
I  ask  you.  How  can  any  one,  even  a  waiter, 
wear  a  thing  like  that?  Don't  they  ever  see 
themselves  in  the  glass,  or  if  they  do  can't  they 
see  straight?  Why,  it  covers  liis  collar  alto- 
gether." 

His  companion  agreed. 

"And  the  shoulders!"  he  went  on.  "You'd 
have  thought  that  in  a  restaurant  like  this  the 
management  would  be  more  particular.  By 
George,  that's  a  jolly  pretty  girl  coming  in! 
Look — over  there,  just  under  the  clock,  with  the 
red  hair."     And  the  waiter  was  forgotten. 

Forgotten,  however,  only  by  his  table  critics, 
for  at  that  moment  a   little   woman,   who   had 
made   friends  with  the  hall-porter  for  this  ex- 
press purpose,  was  peering  through  the  window 
of  the  entrance,  searching  the  room  for  her  son. 
She  had  never  yet  seen  him  at  his  work  at  all, 
and  certainly  not  in  his  grand  and  glorious  new 
waiting  clothes,   and   naturally   she   wanted   to. 
"Ah!"  she  said  at  last,  pointing  the  boy  out 
to  the  porter,  "there  he  is !  over  there  where  all 
those   young   gentlemen   are.     Doesn't   he   look 
fine?     And     don't    they     fit    him     beautifully? 
Why,  no  one  would  know  the  difference  if  he 
were  to  sit  down  at  the  table  and  one  of  those 
young  gentlemen  was  to  wait  on  him." 

[66] 


A  SIGNPOST 

POSSIBLY  from  lack  of  time  to  devote  to 
long  bouts  of  reading,  I  have  a  growing 
fondness  for  reflections  and  sententiae,  before 
the  wisdom  of  whose  authors  I  am  usually  aston- 
ished and  abashed.  My  latest  discovery  in  this 
branch  of  literature  is  Lacon;  or.  Many  Things 
in  Few  Words,  by  the  Rev.  C.  C.  Colton,  and 
were  the  readers  of  aphorisms  ever  influenced  by 
them,  I  should  already  be  profoundly  sensible 
and  too  good  to  live. 

The  author  of  Lacon  had  watched  the  world 
with  closeness,  and  had  brought  an  uncom- 
promising and  slightly  scornful  mind  to  bear 
upon  what  he  saw.  The  result  is  a  detached 
and  mordant  commentary  on  men  and  affairs, 
varied  by  counsels  of  perfection.  In  the  inter- 
ests of  space  I  quote  only  from  the  briefer  com- 
ments, but  the  longer  are  remarkable  too, 
shrewdly  thought  and  lucidly  expressed: 

He  that  likes  a  hot  dinner,  a  warm  welcome,  new 
ideas,  and  old  wine  will  not  often  dine  with  tlie  great. 

If  you  would  be  known,  and  not  know,  vegetate  in 
a  village;  if  you  would  know,  and  not  be  known,  live 
in  a  city. 

[67] 


Giving  and  Receiving 

There  is  this  difTorcnop  between  happiness  and 
wisdom;  he  that  thinks  liimself  the  happiest  man 
really  is  so,  but  lie  that  thinks  himself  the  wisest  is 
generally  the  greatest  fool. 

Were  the  life  of  man  prolonged  he  would  become 
such  a  proficient  in  villainy  that  it  would  be  necessary 
again  to  drown  or  burn  the  world. 

Hurry  and  Cunning  are  the  two  apprentices  of 
Despatch  and  Skill,  but  neither  of  them  ever  learned 
their  masters'  trade. 

Some  reputed  saints  that  have  been  canonized  ought 
to  have  been  cannonaded,  and  some  reputed  sinners 
that  have  been  cannonaded  ought  to  have  been  canon- 
ized. 

Of  all  the  marvellous  works  of  the  Deity,  perhaps 
there  is  nothing  that  angels  behold  with  such  su- 
preme astonishment  as  a  proud  man. 

The  good  people  of  England  do  all  that  in  them 
lies  to  make  their  king  a  puppet;  and  then,  with  their 
usual  consistency,  detest  him  if  he  is  not  what  they 
would  make  him  and  despise  him  if  he  is. 

By  the  way,  I  wonder  if  any  other  country 
has  within  her  own  borders  such  candid  critics 
as  England  can  ever  boast.  It  is  almost  as 
much  a  point  of  honour  in  an  Englishman  to 
find  his  country  imperfect  as  for  a  Scotchman 
to  find  perfection  in  his.  Again,  of  England 
and  her  King: 

A  king  of  England  has  an  interest  in  preserving 
the  freedom  of  the  Press,  because  it  is  his  interest  to 
know  the  true  state  of  the  nation,  which  the  courtiers 
would  fain  conceal,  but  of  which  a  free  Press  alone 
can  inform  him. 
[68] 


A  Signpost 

And  this  of  kings  generally: 

If  kings  would  only  determine  not  to  extend  their 
dominions  until  thoy  had  filled  them  with  happiness, 
they  would  find  the  smallest  territories  too  large,  but 
the  longest  life  too  short,  for  the  full  accomplishment 
of  so  grand  and  so  noble  an  ambition. 

It  must  be  great  fun  to  write  aphorisms, 
although  there  cannot  be  much  money  in  it — 
until  editors  adopt  generally  the  practice  of 
that  famous  Frenchman  who  paid  twice  as  much 
for  half-a-column  as  for  a  column,  twice  as 
much  for  a  quarter  of  a  column  as  for  a  half, 
and  most  of  all  for  a  good  paragraph.  But 
apart  from  money,  which  has  nothing  to  do  with 
the  pleasures  of  craftsmanship,  it  must  be  great 
fun  to  write  aphorisms,  because  one  has  all  the 
satisfaction  and  excitem'ent  of  fitting  the  words 
into  the  right  place,  having  plenty  of  time  to  do 
it  in  (since  only  the  unhasty  are  aphoristic), 
while  one  knows  also  the  content  that  comes 
from  scoring  off  poor  humanity,  one's  constant 
butt.  Were  men  and  women  not  fallible,  the 
aphorist  would  disappear.  As  it  is,  he  comes 
out  as  the  single  notable  exception. 

But  physicians  have  been  known  to  fail  as 
their  own  ])aticnts.  Having  read  much  in 
Lacon,  I  Iiad  the  curiosity  to  turn  up  its  author's 
career  in  The  Dictionary  of  National  Bioqraphif 
and   there    I    found    strange    matter.     Wlio   the 


Giving  and  Receiving 

first  parson  was  to  adjure  his  flock  "to  do  as  he 
said  and  not  as  lie  did"  I  am  unaware,  but  it 
might  well  have  been  the  Rev.  Charles  Caleb 
Colton.  Born  in  1780  and  educated  at  Eton 
and  King's,  he  became  rector  of  Prior's  Portion, 
Tiverton,  at  the  age  of  twenty-one,  and  took 
seriously  to  angling.  After  neglecting  his  parish 
for  many  years  in  favour  of  satirical  verse  and 
sport,  he  was  given  the  living  of  Kew  and 
Petersham,  but  preferred  to  dress  as  a  soldier 
and  reside  in  squalid  London  lodgings,  accom- 
panied by  old  books  and  fishing  rods.  He  also 
added  to  his  cure  of  souls  the  business  of  a  wine 
merchant,  but  did  not  prosper  in  it. 

In  1820  the  first  part  of  Lacon  was  published, 
and  in  1822  the  second,  and  both  were  popular. 
Meanwhile,  however,  while  their  cool  sagacity 
was  being  eagerly  studied,  their  author  was 
losing  at  the  gaming-tables  all  that  he  possessed. 
England  becoming  too  hot  for  him,  he  resided 
in  America  and  in  France,  and  in  1832  com- 
mitted suicide  at  Foatainebleau  at  the  age  of 
fifty-two. 

On  one  of  the  pages  of  Lacon  I  find  this: 

Suicide  sometimes  proceedB  from  cowardice,  but 
not  always,  for  cowardice  sometimes  prevents  it, 
since  many  live  because  they  are  afraid  to  die. 

I  should  not  be  surprised  to  learn  that  Col- 
ton's  suicide  had  an  element  of  courage  in  it. 
[70] 


BREGUET 

REFLECTIVE  writers  have  remarked  upon 
the  curious  circumstance  that  having  met 
with  a  new  word  one  then  hears  it  continually. 
Not  only  is  it  true  of  words,  but  also  of  ideas 
and  people.  It  was  so  with  me  and  Breguet. 
I  had  lived  for  many  years  on  this  perplexing 
globe,  not  uninterested  in  a  variety  of  things, 
before  the  name  of  the  distinguished  French- 
man ever  fell  upon  my  ear.  Then  came  an 
evening,  a  year  ago,  when  after  dinner  several 
of  us  compared  watches.  And  my  neighbour 
(a  famous  builder  of  palaces)  placed  in  my 
hand  a  delicate  neutral-tinted  time-piece,  slen- 
der and  shy,  with  a  small  dial  within  the  large 
one:  a  symphony  in  grey,  silver  and  old  gold. 
It  made  all  the  modern  horological  achievements 
wliich  we  others  possessed  look  either  very 
common  or  very  assertive. 

"What  a  lovely  thing!"  I  said. 

"It's  a  Breguet,"  said  he. 
Breguet  r 

"Yes,  the  great  French  watch-maker.  It's 
well  over  a  liiuidrrd  years  old.  A  repeater 
too" — and  he  touched  a  spring  and  we  listened 
to  its   gentle   tinkle. 

[71] 


Giving  and  Receiving 

It  was  built,  he  told  us,  for  one  of  the  British 
ambassadors  in  Paris. 

There  is  no  need  for  me  to  say  that,  rare  as 
Brcgucts  are,  the  very  next  day,  sitting  at  lunch 
with  an  old  friend,  I  discovered  that  he  liad  a 
Bregnet  too:  also  historic,  for  it  claimed  to  be 
the  first  stem-winder;  and  this  too  had  the 
slimness  that  most  people  think  is  a  recent  in- 
vention, and  this  also  was  of  a  grave  smoky 
beauty.  And  then  another  friend  told  me  that 
his  father  used  to  collect  Brcguets  and  he  him- 
self had  one  but  did  not  carry  it:  he  kept  it, 
in  fact,  at  the  Bank. 

By  this  time  I  was  an  enthusiast,  while  a 
deep  distaste  for  my  own  watch  gradually  pos- 
sessed me.  And  then  I  heard  of  a  Breguet 
for  sale.  .  .  . 

Let,  here,  a  veil  be  drawn. 

Meanwhile,  although  I  did  not  know  it,  the 
printers  of  an  English  provincial  paper  were 
hard  at  work  on  a  limited  edition  of  a  mono- 
graph on  the  great  watch-maker  by  Sir  David 
Salomons,  who  has  been  amassing  examples  of 
Breguet's  skill  for  years,  and  a  copy  of  this 
book — with  the  simple  title  Breguet — is  now  at 
my  side,  packed  with  photographs  of  every  type 
of  Breguet  watch  and  telling  of  their  creator 
all  there  is  to  know:  such  as,  that  the  original 
Breguet,  Louis  Abraham  or  Abraham  Louis,  was 
[72] 


Breguet 

born  at  Neuchatel  in  Switzerland  in  1747,  and 
at  the  age  of  fifteen  was  apprenticed  to  a  watch- 
maker at  Versailles,  in  1762.  In  the  evenings 
he  learned  mathematics  at  the  College  Mazarin. 
A  dim  period  followed,  but  in  or  about  1769 
the  young  man  is  found  established  in  business, 
among  his  customers  being  the  King  and  Queen 
and  Court.  Watches  that  he  made  for  Louis 
XVII  and  Marie  Antoinette  are  in  Sir  David 
Salomons'  collection. 

Early  in  the  Revolution,  Breguet,  who  was  a 
bit  of  a  Sans  Culotte,  was  instrumental  in  help- 
ing Marat  to  escape  from  an  awkward  situation, 
and  Marat  rewarded  him  by  getting  him  a  "safe 
pass"  across  the  Channel  in  1793.  He  was  in 
England  for  two  years,  working  partly  for 
George  III,  and  assisted  by  the  pocket-book 
stuffed  with  bank-notes  with  wliich  a  French 
friend  in  London  generously  provided  him. 
Returning  to  Paris,  purged  of  Sansculottism,  he 
found  that  his  factory  had  been  destroyed;  but 
from  the  ruins  sprang  a  finer,  and  for  nearly 
thirty  years  he  presided  over  it  and  saw  that 
nothing  that  was  not  perfect  was  allowed  to 
pass  from  it  into  any  fob.  His  workmen  were 
the  best  to  be  obtained,  and  Breguet  had  the 
pleasant  and  stimulating  habit,  when  they  pre- 
sented their  accounts,  of  adding  a  tail  to  the 
final  0  of  the  amount  and  thus  awarding  a  nine- 

[73] 


Giving  and  Receiving 

franc  prize  for  merit.  It  was  perhaps  not  purely 
kind-heartedness,  but  a  necessary  piece  of  tac- 
tics, for  during  Breguet's  absence  some  of  his 
assistants  had  set  up  in  rivalry,  and  were  imitat- 
ing his  methods  too  closely — but  never  so  closely 
as  really  to  take  in  the  connoisseur.  Even  at 
this  day  there  is  something  about  the  early 
Breguet  watches  that  is  inimitable.  For  one 
thing,  the  secret  of  the  amalgam  that  he  put 
into  the  silver  of  his  watch-faces  was  never  dis- 
covered: but,  more  important  still,  there  is 
genius.  Breguet  was  as  much  an  independent 
genius  as,  say,  Corot,  and  his  watches  are  as 
full  of  personality  as  Corot's  landscapes. 

In  1807,  Breguet  took  his  son  Louis  Antoine 
into  partnership  and  the  watches  were  then  often 
signed  "Breguet  et  Fils."  Breguet  the  elder 
died  in  1823,  and  in  1833,  when  Louis  Antoine 
retired,  his  son  Louis  Clement  Fran9ois  suc- 
ceeded. The  last  of  the  Breguets  was  Louis 
Antoine,  who  died  in  1882,  and  with  him  the 
great  days  of  the  firm  passed.  This  last  Bre- 
guet was  a  mechanic  of  genius  who  is  believed 
to  have  worked  for  Graham  Bell  on  the  first 
telephones.  A  Rue  de  Breguet  preserves  the 
original  Breguet's  fame.  It  is  near  the  Quai 
de  I'Horloge,  where,  at  51,  Breguet's  first  known 
shop  stood.  Later  he  moved  to  the  Rue  de  la 
Paix.  The  business,  which  now  belongs  to 
[74] 


Breguet 

Monsieur  Henry  Brown,  is  carried  on  to-day  at 
2,  Rue  Edouard  VII  and  all  tlie  old  records 
may  be  consulted  there.  If  you  are  so  fortu- 
nate as  to  own  an  original  Breguet  watch  and 
let  M.  Brown  know  the  number,  he  will  tell 
you  its  history.  I  was  talking  with  him  only 
the  other  day.  .  .  . 

After  returning  to  Paris,  Breguet  became 
watch-maker  to  Napoleon  and  to  the  fother 
Buonapartes,  while  in  England  his  fame  was 
bright.  George  III  went  to  Breguet  for  the 
time  of  day  and  so  did  tlie  Prince  Regent.  The 
Duke  of  Wellington  gave  three  thousand  guineas 
for  a  Breguet  and  always  wore  it.  In  fact  it 
was  bad  form  for  many  years  to  learn  the  hour 
from  any  but  a  Breguet  watch.  And  no  wonder, 
for,  as  Sir  David  says,  "To  carry  a  fine  Breguet 
watch  is  to  feel  that  you  have  the  brains  of  a 
genius  in  your  pocket."  If  it  were  so  then, 
when  the  supply  was  comparatively  ample,  what 
must  the  feeling  be  now,  when  the  great  Breguet 
is  dust  and  only  by  good  fortune  can  an  example 
of  his  work  be  lighted  upon?  Surely  at  this 
day  those  few  who  are  privileged  to  learn  how 
late  it  is  wjth  the  assistance  of  one  of  these 
silver-faced  monitors,  under  n  velvety  glass, 
may  be  said  to  constitute  a  separate  order  of 
aristocracy.''     At  least,  we  think  so. 

[75] 


THE    TAIL   AND    THE    SOUVENIRS 

OBSERVANT  Londoners,  asked  to  name 
the  most  poignant  visual  loss  inflicted 
upon  them  by  the  War,  might  differ;  but  I  have 
no  doubt  whatever  that  a  majority  would  agree 
as  to  the  privation  caused  them  by  the  wooden 
huts  which  for  too  long  a  time  occupied  the  St. 
James's  Park  lake  and  shut  out  the  evening 
view  of  the  enchanted  gables  and  towers  and 
spires  of  Whitehall  Court.  That,  on  the  grand 
scale.  On  a  lower  plane  I  personally  should 
name  the  obliteration  of  a  certain  landmark  in 
the  same  saint's  adjacent  square — the  efface- 
ment  being  caused  by  the  Washington  Inn, 
which  for  three  or  four  years  surrounded  and 
absorbed  it. 

But  it  now  waves  as  proudly  and  assertively 
as  ever — the  tail  of  the  King  William's  bronze 
charger. 

It  is  not  an  ordinary  tail,  it  is  a  tail  beyond 
all  tails  and  it  was  grievous  to  lose  it.  "You 
once,"  wrote  (to  Macready)  Charles  Dickens, 
wishing  to  cut  a  swell  figure  at  a  wedding  in 
borrowed  plumes,  "you  once  gave  the  world 
assurance  of  a  waistcoat."  Similarly  this  steed 
[76] 


The  Tail  and  the  Souvenirs 

bestridden  by  the  Anglo-Batavian  monarch 
gives  the  world  assurance  of  a  caudal  append- 
age. For  never  was  such  a  tail.  It  springs 
vehemently  like  a  pennon  from  the  creature's 
stern,  due  south,  and  then  droops  voluptuously 
away.  You  see  the  steed,  royal  rider,  and  the 
superb  additament,  in  profile,  all  the  way  be- 
fore you  as  you  walk  from  the  Haymarket  west- 
wards, along  the  street  where  people  wait  so 
long  and  patiently  in  queues  for  the  privilege 
of  seeing  Mr.  Oscar  Asche  in  (practically)  the 
buff. 

On  looking  into  history  I  find  that  this  mag- 
nificent tail — the  creation  of  the  sculptor  John 
Bacon  the  younger — has  graced  the  square  ever 
since  1808.  I  find  also  that  there  was  once 
water  in  the  middle  of  the  square,  with  pleasure 
boats  upon  it,  and  that  it  was  into  this  lake 
that  the  Gordon  Rioters  in  1780  flung  the  key 
of  Newgate  Prison.  A  century  earlier  the 
square  was  a  duelling  ground,  while  as  recently 
as  1773  a  highwayman  held  up  Sir  Francis 
Holburne  and  his  sisters  in  tlieir  coach  as  they 
passed  through  on  their  way  from  the  opera, 
and  pressing  his  "pistol  to  Miss  ttolburne's 
breast  demanded  lier  purse. 

During  the  War  the  collecting  of  relics  was  a 
very  popular  hobby  and  no  family  any  longer 
respected  itself  unless  it  had  a  projectile  as  a 

[77] 


Givinf?  and  Receiving 

door-stop,  a  paper-knife  made  of  the  copper 
binding  of  a  sliell-case  flattened  out  and  shaped, 
and  a  cartridge  pencil.  To  what  extent  these 
treasures  are  now  valued  I  cannot  say;  I  refer 
to  them  merely  as  prefatory  matter  to  No.  2, 
St.  James's  Square,  where  Admiral  Edward  Bos- 
cawen  once  resided,  and  to  draw  attention  to 
the  kind  of  war  souvenir  that  that  sea  ravener 
affected.  For  whereas  we  were,  so  to  speak, 
retail  in  our  acquisitiveness,  he  was  wholesale. 
Where  we  were  content  with  ammunition,  he 
demanded  the  guns  themselves,  five  of  which, 
from  the  battle  of  Finisterre  in  1747,  may  still 
be  seen  in  a  row  before  his  house.  From  two 
of  them  sprout  lamp  posts. 

One  may  pass  No.  2  a  thousand  times,  on 
one's  way  to  call  on  the  Bishop  of  London  or 
lunch  at  the  Sports  Club  or  change  a  book 
at  the  London  Library,  and  never  give  a 
thought  to  these  five  half-buried  pieces  of  heavy 
ordnance;  but  that  is  their  history,  and  their 
captor  (under  Anson)  was  this  same  "Wry- 
necked  Dick"  or  "Old  Dreadnought,"  as  the 
Admiral  was  called,  v^o  brought  back  with  him 
not  only  the  Frenchman's  guns  but  also  a  wound 
in  his  shoulder. 

His  seems  to  me  a  very  thorough  way  of  mak- 
ing war:   first  to  defeat  your  foe  and  then  to 
adapt  his  artillery  to  your  own  domestic  pur- 
[78] 


The  Tail  and  the  Souvenirs 

poses.  It  is  also  almost  scripturallj^  pacific.  A 
sword  becomes  a  ploughshare  with  less  ease  than 
a  cannon  becomes  the  socket  for  a  gas  standard, 
as  any  one  can  see  for  himself  by  visiting  No.  2, 
St.  James's  Square. 

The  admiral  who  resided  behind  this  strange 
palisade  was  perhaps  rather  a  fortunate  than  a 
great  sailor ;  he  was  never  a  commander  of  such 
genius  that  his  supersession  in  the  middle  of  a 
war  was  inevitable;  but  he  liad  a  victory  or  so 
to  his  name,  in  particular  the  defeat  of  De  la 
Clue — largely  the  result  of  a  short  way  with 
treaties — in  Lagos  Bay  in  1759,  and  he  was 
able  to  build  himself  a  country  mansion  at 
Hatchlands  Park  in  Surrey  "at  the  expense  of 
the  enemies  of  his  country,"  which  must  always 
be  a  pleasant  thing  for  a  fighting  man  to  do. 

But  his  memory  is  chiefly  prized  in  the  Navy 
for  his  efforts  to  make  it  a  more  civilized  service 
than  lie  found  it.  Many  of  the  hygienic  pre- 
cautions and  comforts  of  crews  to-day  originated 
in  the  humane  activity  of  "Wry-necked  Dick," 
a  name  deriving  from  his  habit  of  carrying  his 
head  on  one  side,  or  "Old  Dreadnought,"  a 
title  which  seems  to  have  been  conferred,  when 
lie  was  still  young,  in  honour  of  his  reply,  one 
nigiit,  when  in;  was  awakened  by  an  officer  with 
the  question,  "Sir,  there  are  two  large  ships 
which  look  like  Frenchmen  bearing  down  on  us, 

[79] 


Giving  and  Receiving 

■what  are  we  to  do?"  "Do?"  said  Boscawen, 
"damn  them,  fight  them!"  One  is  warned, 
however,  that  this  story,  since  it  stops  short  at 
that  point,  may  be  apocryphal,  no  engagement 
being  on  record.  But  the  five  half-buried  can- 
non in  front  of  No.  2,  St.  James's  Square,  are 
real  enough. 

I  find  also  that  in  St.  James's  Square  many 
illustrious  men  have  dwelt,  one  house  (No.  10) 
having  in  its  day  sheltered  three  Prime  Minis- 
ters— Pitt,  Derby,  and  Gladstone;  but  not,  as 
the  old  lady  reading  the  tablet  wondered,  all  at 
once.  But  what  are  three  Prime  Ministers  in 
one  house  compared  with  the  tail  of  the  horse 
of  William  III  ?  That,  as  I  hold,  is  the  square's 
chief  distinction. 


[80] 


THE  BLUE  RURITANIA 

A    STORY    IN    DOCUMENTS 

Nancy  Grinlay  to  her  brother  John  Grinlay, 
B.A.,  a  master  at  St.  Austell's  School  at 
Eastbourne 

DEAREST  JACK,— The  doctors  have  been 
and  have  gone  again,  and  their  verdict  is 
that  Dad  must  not  on  any  account  spend  this 
winter  in  England.  It  is  what  we  expected, 
but  that  does  not  make  the  problem  of  how  to 
pay  for  a  home  in  a  warm  climate  any  simpler. 
Sir  Reston  Chaynge  wants  Algeciras,  and  Dad 
would  like  that,  too ;  but  how  can  it  be  managed 
without  borrowing?     What  do  you  say.'' 

Your  loving 

Nan 
John  Grinlay  to  his  sister 
Dearest  Nan, — We  must  not  let  anything 
stand  in  the  way  of  Dad's  recovery;  but  we'll 
keep  off  borrowing  as  long  as  possible.  I  will 
set  my  wits  to  work  and  try  and  devise  a  plan 
to  make  a  little  money.  Meanwiiile,  you  should 
go  to  Cook's  and  find  out  about  the  probable 

[81] 


Giving  and  Receiving 

expense  of  the  journey  and  the  hotel,  etc.  I 
shan't  be  happy  until  he  is  safely  there,  under 
the  sun. 

Yours, 

Jack 

John  Grinlay  to  the  Editor  of  "The  Friday 
Review."  (One  of  many  similar  letters) 
Dear  Sir, — I  am  sending  you  a  selection  of 
essays  and  verses,  some  at  any  rate  of  which  I 
hope  you  may  find  suitable  for  your  columns. 
If  nothing  among  them  should  be  of  any  use, 
perhaps  you  may  like  my  style  sufficiently  to 
commission  an  article? 

I  am, 

Yours  faithfully, 

John  Grinlay,  B.A. 

The  Editor  of  "The  Friday  Review"  to  John 
Grinlay  Esq.,  B.A.      (One  of  many  similar 
letters) 
The  Editor  of  The  Friday  Review  presents 
his  compliments  to  Mr.  Grinlay  and  regrets  that 
he  can  find  no  place  for  the  enclosed  contribu- 
tions.    He  would  point  out  that  a  stamped  en- 
velope should  accompany  all  unsolicited   MSS. 

John   Grinlay  to  his  sister 
Dearest    Nan, — No    luck    yet;    but    are    we 
[82] 


The  Blue  Ruritania 

downhearted?     No.     We  still  won't  think  about 
borrowing    until    I    have    tried    various    other 


means. 


Yours, 

Jack 

From  "The  Evening  Dawn" 

SENSATIONAL    CUP    FINISH 

ANOTHER    OUTSIDER    WINS 

33   TO    1    CHANCE 

Another  upset  for  the  knowing  ones  has  to  be 
recorded  on  the  tablets  of  Turf  history.  Not  a 
single  authority  gave  Stumer  for  the  Beaufort 
Cup  to-day,  yet  the  son  of  Burin  and  Banksia 
romped  in  with  the  greatest  ease  at  the  very 
useful  price  of  33  to  1.  Talk  about  winter's 
keep !  The  lucky  ones  who  were  on  him,  among 
whom  I  am  told  was  that  excellent  High  Court 
judge  and  judge  of  racing,  Lord  Westinghouse, 
will  have  made  their  keep  not  only  for  this 
winter  but  for  next  summer  too.  Now  that  it 
is  all  over  and  it  is  easy  to  be  wise  about  it, 
there  are  reasons  enough  why  Stumer  should 
have  won,  remembering  his  excellent  effort  at 
Sandown  in  the  simimcr,  when  he  ran  second 
to  the  lightly  wciglitcd  Boiler  Plate  .  .  .  etc., 
etc. 

J83l 


Giving  and  Receiving 

Xavc;/  Grinlay  to  her  brother  John 
Dear  Jack, — I  have  got  all  the  figures  now. 
For  Dad  and  nie — and  of  course  he  can't  be 
alone  or  I  would  willingly  save  my  part  of  the 
expense  by  staying  here  and  getting  a  job — it 
can't  be  done,  from  December  to  April,  under 
£l40.  That  is  just  travelling  and  pension, 
leaving  nothing  for  odd,  unexpected  things — a 
doctor,  say,  medicine,  wine,  drives,  and  so  forth. 
It's  a  lot;  but  we  have  got  to  do  it.  Possibly 
we  might  find  a  tenant  for  our  rooms? 

Yours, 

Nan 

John  Grinlay  to  his  friend  Henry  Thurston 
Dear  Old  Man, — I  see  there's  a  filly  running 
at  Derby  to-morrow  called  Salubrity  by  Anchor 
out  of  Winter  Sunshine.  I  want  you  to  put 
the  enclosed  fiver  on  her,  because  it  seems  to 
me  a  heaven-sent  tip.  You  see,  my  poor  old 
Governor  has  been  ordered  south  for  the  cold 
weather,  and  we  naturally  want  him  to  get  all 
right  again,  and  there  you  have  the  whole  thing. 
Our  hope  (Anchor)  is  that  through  Winter  Sun- 
shine  at  Algeciras   he   may   recover   his   health 

(Salubrity).  You  must  know  some  one  who 
bets  and  who  will  do  this  for  me.  I  have  never 
backed  a  horse  in  my  life  before,  but  this  looks 
good  enough  and  the  money  for  the  Governor's 
[84] 


The  Blue  Ruritania 

trip  has  got  to  be  found  somewhere.     Why  not 
let  the  bookies  provide  it? 

Yours, 

Jack 

From  "The  Evening  Dawn" 
Also  ran:  Salubrity. 

Henry  Thurston  to  John  Grinlay 
My  dear  Ass, — Here  is  your  fiver.  I  did  not 
put  it  on,  and  you  will  doubtless  be  as  glad  as 
I  am,  now  that  you  have  seen  the  result.  That 
is  neither  the  way  to  select  a  winner  nor  to  raise 
money  for  paternal  jaunts. 

Yours, 

H. 

The  Editor  of  "The  Weekly  Post"  to  John  Grin- 
lay,    Esq.,    B.A.     (One    of    many    similar 
letters) 
The  Editor  of  The  Weekly  Post  thanks  Mr. 
John  Grinlay  for  his  contribution,  but  is  unable 
to  find  room  for  it  and  therefore  returns  it. 

From   "The   Daily   Reveille" 
•Our  "Security-Tip"  again-  turned  up  yester- 
day, for  tlic  fiftli  time  in  succession,  and  those 
of  my  readers  who  do  me  the  honour  to  follow 
me  must  be  very   happy.     Any  one   risking  a 

[85] 


Giving  and  Receiving 

fiver  botli  ways  each  day  since  the  flat  season 
commenced  is  now  £93  7«.  6d.  in  pocket. 

John  Grinlay  to  Henry  Thurston 
My  dear  Harry, — Your  caution  was  useful 
and  I  am  grateful  to  you  for  exercising  it.  All 
the  same,  I  am  quite  sure  that  there  is  money 
to  be  made  on  the  Turf  if  one  only  keeps  one's 
head  and  studies  form.  As  I  have  simply  got 
to  raise  a  certain  sum  quickly,  I  am  going  to 
have  a  flutter,  and  shall  be  glad  if  you  will  tell 
me  of  a  decent  firm  to  bet  with.  If  you  don't 
know  yourself,  any  one  at  your  club  will  tell 
you.  The  Daily  Reveille's  racing  man  has  been 
having  a  wonderful  run  of  luck  lately,  and  I 
shall  probably  follow  him.  After  all,  he  is  paid 
to  know  his  subject  and  has  been  carefully 
picked  by  his  editor. 

Yours, 

Jack 

Henry  Thurston  to  John  Grinlay 
My  dear  Jack, — Don't  be  a  fool.  Betting  is 
a  mug's  game,  even  when  one  can  afford  to 
lose,  which  you  cannot.  Besides,  schoolmasters 
mustn't  gamble.  And  you  must  remember  that 
form  is  at  the  mercy  of  all  kinds  of  conditions 
and  accidents,  of  which  the  racing  journalist 
too  often  knows  little  and  the  great  public 
notliing.  The  very  fact  that  the  men  who  study 
[86] 


The  Blue  Ruritania 

it  also  want  tips  is  a  proof  of  its  uncertainty. 

I  dropped  out  of  the  way  of  getting  tips  years 
ago,  and  when  I  got  them  they  were  rarely  any 
good. 

Most  of  the  Turf  commission-agents  who 
advertise  are  probably  straight  enough.  They 
will  all  be  equally  glad  to  let  you  maintain  their 
women  and  children.  But  I  wish  you  would  be 
sensible  and  keep  ofiF  it. 

Yours, 

Henry 

John  Grinlay  to  Henry  Thurston 
Dear  Harry, — Your  letter  doesn't  absolutely 
convince  me.  I  am  aware,  of  course,  that  the 
odds  are  against  the  backer,  but  form  does 
mean  something  in  the  long  run,  even  though  it 
is  often  upset;  and,  after  all,  one  horse  in  each 
race  must  come  in  first.  I  am  not  likely  to 
become  a  regular  gambler,  but  just  at  the  mo- 
ment I  mean  to  try  my  luck. 

Yours, 

Jack 

John    Grinlay    to   Mensrs.   Anr/lc   (fr    Webb, 

Turf    Accountants 
Dear  Sirs,— I  should  like  to  open  an  account 
with  you.     I  enclose  references. 

Yours  faithfully, 

John  Grinlay 
[87] 


Giving  and  Receiving 

Messrs.  Angle  &  Webb  to  John  Grinlay,  Esq. 
Dear  Sir, — We  have  pleasure  in  adding  your 
name  to  our  list  of  clients.  We  enclose  our 
book  of  rules,  which  include  a  telegraphic  code, 
and  we  have  registered  your  nom  de  plume  for 
betting  purposes  as  "Sanguine." 

We  are, 
Yours  faithfully. 

Angle  &  Webb 


From  "The  Daily  Reveille" 
TO-DAY'S  SECURITY-TIP 

Tantivy.     Each  way 


Telegram  from  John  Grinlay  to  Messrs.  Angle 

&  Webb 

Tantivy         spot         lantern         Sanguine. 

(Decoded,  this  means  "£.5  each  way  on 
Tantivy.     John  Grinlay.") 

From  "The  Evening  Dawn" 
Also  ran:  Tantivy. 

From  "The  Daily  Reveille" 
High  among  the  November  Cup  probables  for 
the  careful  investor  to  keep  an  eye  on  is  Tor- 
toise.    This  speedy  son  of  Excursion  Train  and 
[88] 


The  Blue  Ruritania 

Crustacean  looked  a  picture  when  I  saw  him  in 
his  gallop  yesterday  morning.  I  should  advise 
a  liberal  investment  each  way,  with  perhaps 
more  for  a  place  than  to  win.  Tom  Helix, 
Tortoise's  trainer,  has  the  deepest  confidence  in 
the  colt. 

John   Grinlay   to   his   sister  Nancy 
My  dear  Nan, — I  have  no  good  news  yet,  but 
I  am  hoping  for  a  substantial  cheque  at  the  end 
of  the  week.     I  am  doing  a  little  investing. 

Yours, 

Jack 

Telegram  from  John  Grinlay  to  Messrs.  Angle 

&  Webb 
Tortoise  ring         stretcher         knock 

ambulance      Sanguine. 
(Decoded,  this  means,  "£30  on  Tortoise  to 
win  and  £70  for  a  place.") 

From  "The  Evening  Dawn" 
Also  ran:  Tortoise. 

John    Grinlay    to   Henry    Thurston 

Dear    Old    Man, — Peccavi !       I    wish    I    liad 

taken  your  advice,   for    I    am   now  badly  down. 

No  doubt  a  winner  at  a  big  price  awaits  me,  but 

I  have  lost  my  nerve.     Not  only  have  I  no  luck 

[89] 


Givinpj  and  Receiving 

myself,  but  I  have  brought  bad  luck  to  others. 
The  Reveille  man  hasn't  had  one  "Security" 
winner  since  I  began  to  follow  him! 

The  point  now  is,  can  you  lend  me   £200? 
Any  interest  you  like. 

Yours, 

Jack 

Henry  Thurston  to  John  Grinlay 
My  dear  Jack, — I  am  very  sorry,  but  you 
have  hit  upon  my  worst  time.  Not  only  have  I 
no  spare  money  at  all,  but  I  also  am  in  debt, 
although  not  through  gambling.  I  am  fright- 
fully sorry. 

Yours, 

H. 

Ronald  Maherley,  at  school  at  St.  Austell's,  to 
Mr.    Thomas    Blissett,    merchant,    an    old 
friend  of  the  family 
Dear   Uncle   Tom, — Can  you   send  me   some 
foreign  stamps?     Most  of  the  fellows  here  col- 
lect them,  and  I  should  like  to.      I  expect  you 
have  lots   of  letters   from  abroad.      I  kicked   a 
goat  yesterday.     Chemistry  is  awful  fun. 

Yours  affectionately, 

Ronald 

Mr.  Thomas  Blissett  to  Ronald  Maherley 
My  dear  Ronald, — In  re  foreign  stamps.     I 
[90] 


The  Blue  Ruritania 

find  that  all  our  envelopes  are  thrown  away. 
But  it  chances  that  a  little  while  ago  I  received 
from  abroad  the  effects  of  an  old  friend  who 
died  last  year  in  Burma,  and  who  left  all  his 
little  property  to  me,  having  no  one  else  to 
leave  it  to.  Among  the  things  is  the  accom- 
panying stamp-album,  which  I  am  sending  on 
to  you  hoping  that  it  will  form  the  nucleus  (see 
dictionary)  of  a  collection.  I  will  tell  my 
clerk  in  future  to  tear  all  stamps  off  foreign 
letters  and  keep  them  for  you.  I  should  like 
you  to  preserve  the  album  intact  and  merely  add 
to  it  from  time  to  time. 

As  a  subscriber  to  the  R.S.P.C.A.  I  have  to 
express  my  regret  that  you  kicked  a  goat.  We 
should  be  merciful  to  poor  dumb  animals. 

Yours  sincerely, 

"Uncle  Tom" 

Messrs.  Ancjle  d'  Webb  to  John  Grinlay 
Dear  Sir, — We  must  again  remind  you  that 
the  sum  of  £l.55  is  still  due  to  us.  Our  rules  are 
tliat  settlements  must  be  made  every  Monday, 
and  this  amount  has  been  owing  for  some  time. 
Unless  you  can  let  us  have  a  cheque  by  the  first 
of  the  month  we  shall  be  forced  to  take  steps. 

We  are, 
Yours  faithfully. 

Angle  &  Webb 
[91] 


Givinp^  and  Receiving 

Ronald  Maherlcij  io  Mr.  Thomas  Blissett 
Dear  Uncle  Tom, — Thanks  awfully.  The 
album  looks  ripping.  We  are  to  have  a  half- 
holiday  to-morrow  because  the  Head's  wife  has 
another  baby.  It  is  a  pity  none  of  the  other 
masters  are  married.  I  am  sorry  my  writing  is 
so  rotten,  I  didn't  mean  I  had  kicked  a  goat, 
but  a  goal.  I  must  have  crossed  the  I  by 
mistake. 

Yours   affectionately, 

Ronald 


John  Grinlay  to  Henry  Thurston 
Dear  Harry, — There  is  no  one  to  turn  to  but 
you.  I  owe  those  bookies  £l55  and  they're 
cutting  up  rough.  If  it  were  known  here  I 
should  get  the  boot  at  once.  If  you  can't  help 
me  yourself,  can  you  find  me  a  firm  of  money- 
lenders ? 

Yours  in  despair. 

Jack 


Henry    Thurston   to  John   Grinlay 

Dear   Jack, — I   don't  know  what  to  advise. 

It's   1,000   to    1    against   any   of  those   note-of- 

hand-loans-to-any-amount       Johnnies       lending 

money  to  a  junior  master  in  a  private  school. 

[92] 


The  Blue  Ruritania 

When  the  time  comes  they  want  security,  and 
what  can  you  give? 

Yours, 

H. 

Ronald  Maherley  to  Mr.  Thomas  BUssett 
Dear  Uncle  Tom, — One  of  the  masters  here, 
Mr.  Grinlay,  wants  to  buy  the  stamp-album,  but 
I  told  him  I  must  ask  you  first.  He  seems  aw- 
fully keen  on  it.  He  might  give  a  pound,  I 
expect  or  even  more,  and  that  would  buy 
several  things  I  want,  and  get  me  out  of  debt 
to  a  boy  who  sold  me  his  fountain  pen.  I  owe 
two  shillings  for  tuck  too.  I  know  you  hate 
people  being  in  debt.  Besides,  I  don't  believe 
I  shall  ever  be  able  to  get  a  really  good  collec- 
tion of  stamps. 

Yours  affectionately, 

Ronald 

John  Grinlay  to  Messrs.  Angle  cG  Webb 
Dear  Sirs, — I  hope  you  will  give  me  another 
fortnight.  I  liave  the  prospect  of  receiving 
quite  a  large  sum  of  money  in  a  few  days'  time, 
when  you  shall  instantly  be  paid  in  full.  It 
could  do  yourselves  no  good  to  take  what  you 
call  steps,  because  they  would  only  reduce  my 
chances  of  repayment.  Tf  I  have  not  paid  it 
has   been   because   there   is   no  money,   not  be- 

[03] 


GiviiifT-  and  Receiving 

cause  I  was  trying  to  evade  it.  I  enclose  a  cheque 
for  £5  on  account,  and  am, 

Yours  faithfully, 

J.  Grinlay 

Ronald  Maherley  to  Mr.  Thomas  Blissett 
Dear  Uncle  Tom, — I  have  told  Mr.  Grinlay 
what  rou  said,  and  he  is  very  disappointed. 
Would  3'ou  mind  very  much  if  I  let  him  have 
just  one  stamp  for  his  collection?  He  is  very 
keen,  and  he  says  that  it  would  make  up  a  set. 
As  he  has  been  collecting  for  so  long,  and  I  am 
just  beginning,  I  don't  like  to  refuse.  Besides, 
he  is  awfully  decent  to  me,  and  yesterday  got 
me  let  oflF  an  imposition.  But  I  don't  want  to 
do  anything  against  your  wishes.  All  the  other 
boys  are  always  swapping  stamps. 

Yours    affectionately, 
Ronald 

John  Grinlay  to  Mr.  Bennett,  Dealer  in  Postage 

Stamps 
Dear  Sir, — Please  let  me  know  what  you 
would  give  for  a  blue  Ruritania  in  perfect  con- 
dition. I  must  have  some  kind  of  estimate  at 
once;  otherwise  I  shall  offer  it  elsewhere.  I 
am  giving  you  the  first  chance. 

Yours  faithfully, 

J.  Grinlay 
[94] 


The  Blue  Ruritania 

Mr.  Bennett   to  J,   Grinlay,  Esq.,  B.A. 
Dear  Sir, — I  should  have  to  see  the  specimen 
before  I  made  an  offer,  but  if  it  were  in  perfect 
condition   it  would  be  worth  to  me   somewhere 
about   £300. 

I   am, 
Yours   faithfully, 

W.  S.   Bennett 

Thomas  Blissett  to  Ronald  Maberley 
My  dear  Ronald, — I  don't  want  you  to  sell 
anything  in  that  collection.  It  belonged  to  a 
great  friend  of  mine,  and  I  passed  it  on  to  you 
to  keep,  not  to  part  with  or  break  up.  If  you 
have  lost  interest  in  stamps  return  it  to  me. 

I  enclose  two  ten-shilling  notes  for  your  lia- 
bilities. Not  only  do  I  disapprove  of  your 
being  in  debt,  but  even  more  of  your  getting 
into  it.  The  only  thing  to  do  if  you  cannot 
afford  a  tiling  you  want  is  to — do  without. 

Yours  sincerely, 

"Uncle  Tom" 

Dr.  Severus,  Head  Master  of  St.  Austell's,  to 
Claude  Maberley,  Esq. 
Dear  Mr.  Maherhy, —  I  am  writing  to  you 
concerning  a  rather  curious  ease  that  has  arisen. 
As  I  passed  this  evening  on  my  rounds  among 
the  boys,  during  their   after-supper   recreation 

[95] 


Givinf]^  and  Receiving 

hour,  as  is  my  custom,  I  was  interested  to  see 
your  boy  busy  with  a  stamp  album — stamps 
just  now  being  all  the  rage  here.  I  looked  at 
it  for  a  while  with  him — Ronald  is,  I  may  say, 
a  very  intelligent  boy,  and  we  are  all  exceed- 
ingly pleased  with  him — and  was  amazed  to  find 
that  what  I  had  at  first  supposed  to  be  a  facsi- 
mile of  the  very  rare  blue  Ruritania  was  in 
reality  a  genuine  specimen,  worth,  I  suppose, 
three  or  four  hundred  pounds.  On  my  asking 
him  how  he  obtained  it,  he  said  that  Mr.  Blis- 
sett,  an  old  friend  of  the  family,  whom  he  calls 
Uncle  Tom,  sent  the  album  to  him  as  a  gift. 
Thinking  that  you  might  like  to  inquire  as  to 
Mr.  Blissett's  wish  to  part — probably  all  un- 
consciously— with  so  valuable  a  treasure,  and 
also  with  a  view  to  greater  safety,  I  took  the 
album  away  with  me  and  shall  keep  it  in  my 
charge. 

With    kind    regards    to    Mrs.    Maberley,    in 
which  Mrs.  Severus  joins. 

Believe  me. 
Yours   sincerely, 
Theodore  Severus 

Claude  Maberley  to  Thomas  Blissett 
My   dear    Tom, — You   have   been    making   a 
donkey  of  yourself.     You  have  sent  Ronald  a 
stamp-album   containing  a  genuine  blue   Ruri- 
[9Q] 


The  Blue  Ruritania 

tania,  one  of  the  scarcest  things  in  the  world, 
and  Heaven  knows  what  else  besides.  For 
greater  safety,  the  Head  Master  has  locked  it 
up.     Tell  me  what  you  want  done  about  it. 

Yours, 
Claude 

Dr.   Severus   to   Mr.   Claude   Maberley 
Dear  Mr.  Maberley, — I  am  sorry  to  say  that 
something    very     unsatisfactory    has    occurred, 
which  to  a  certain  extent  stultifies  my  letter  to 
you  of  last  evening.     I   said  then  that  I   was 
putting  Ronald's  album  in  safe  keeping,  but  my 
precautions  were  insufficient,  for  to-day  we  have 
discovered    that    the    blue    Ruritania    stamp    is 
missing  from  it.     Ronald  can  throw  no  light  on 
the    mystery.     He    says    that   the    only    person 
who  has  taken  any  interest  in  the  album  is  one 
of  my  staff,  Mr.  Grinlay,  a  collector  himself, 
who  cannot  assist  me  with  any  theory  to-day  as 
he  has  gone  to  town  on  urgent  business.     When 
he  returns  we  must  put  our  heads  together  and 
go  into  the  whole  matter.     I  take  it  that  you 
would  like  me  to  inform  the  police.'' 

I  am. 
Yours  sincerely, 
Thkodore  Severus 


[97] 


Giving  and  Receiving 

Dr.    Severus    to    Claude    Maberley 
Telegram 
No    need    for     further    action.     Stamp    was 
replaced  in  album  during  night.     Suspect  prac- 
tical joke. 

Severus 

John   Grinlay    to   Messrs.   Angle   d'    Webb 
Dear    Sirs, — Cheque    enclosed    to    discharge 
your  a/c. 

Yours  faithfully, 

John  Grinlay 

John   Grinlay   to   his   sister  Nancy 
Telegram 
Don't  worry  any  more.     Am  sending  cheque 
to  cover  whole  trip. 

Jack 

John   Grinlay   to  Henry    Thurston 
Dear  Old  Man, — I  have  had  a  stroke  of  luck 
and   I   am  all   straight   once   more.      But  never 
again!     No  one  will  ever  know  what  I've  been 
through. 

Yours, 

Jack 

Dr,    Severus    to    Claude    Maberley 
Dear  Mr.  Maberley, — In  explanation  of  my 
telegram,  let  me  say  that  all  is  well,  although 
[98] 


The  Blue  Ruritania 

a  certain  mystery  still  attaches  to  the  matter. 
When  I  came  to  examine  the  album  the  next 
day  I  found  to  my  astonishment  that  the  missing 
stamp  was  again  in  its  place.  My  wife  sug- 
gests that  I  had  imagined  the  loss ;  but  that  the 
whole  affair  is  an  hallucination  on  my  part  I 
cannot  admit.  On  the  other  hand,  it  would,  I 
feel,  do  no  good  in  the  school  if  further  publicity 
were  given  to  it. 

Yours   sincerely, 
Theodore  Severus 

Thomas  Blisseit  to  Claude  Mabcrlcy 
My  dear  Claude, — I  was  away  when  your 
letter  came,  or  should  have  replied  sooner.  In 
the  words  of  some  eminent  man  or  other,  "What 
I  have  given,  I  have  given";  and  therefore  the 
album  is  as  much  Ronald's  now  as  if  it  had 
been  worthless.  What  I  should  like  is  for  it  to 
be  valued  by  an  expert  and  sold,  and  the  pro- 
ceeds to  be  invested  for  the  boy.  Perhaps  you 
will  arrange  this.'' 

Yours, 

Tom 

Claudp    Maherley    to    Dr.    Severus 
Dear    Dr.    Scverus,--My    friend    Blissett   has 
very    sportinply    decided    that   the   stamp-album 
sh,il]  be  Ronald's,  no  matter  what  its  worth,  and 

[99] 


Giving  and  Receiving 

he  wishes  it  to  be  sold  and  the  proceeds  in- 
vested. Will  you  then  kindly  let  me  have  it 
for  valuation? 

We  are  glad  you  think  so  highly  of  Honald. 

Believe  me, 
Yours  sincerely, 
Claude  Maberley 

Claude   Maberley    to   Messrs.    Carstairs 
Dear  Sirs, — I   understand  that  you   are  our 
leading  stamp-experts,  and  shall  be  glad  to  have 
your    valuation    of    the    accompanying    album, 
which  I  wish  to  sell. 

I  am. 
Yours   faithfully, 
Claude  Maberley 

Messrs.   Carstairs,  Postage  Stamp  Experts,  to 
Claude  Maberley,  Esq. 
Dear  Sir, — We  have  examined  the  album  and 
value  it  at   £240.     Kindly  let  us  know  what 
you  wish  done  in  the  matter. 

We  are. 
Yours  faithfully, 

Carstairs  &  Co. 

Claude    Maberley    to   Messrs.    Carstairs 
Dear  Sirs, — I  confess  to  being  surprised  by 
your  valuation,  because    I   have  been  given  to 
understand  that  the  collection  contains  a  blue 
[100] 


The  Blue  Ruritania 

Ruritania,    which    alone    should    be    worth    be- 
tween three  and  four  hundred  pounds. 

I  am, 
Yours   faithfully, 
Claude  Maberley 

Messrs.  Carstairs  to  Claude  Maberley,  Esq. 
Dear  Sir, — In  reply  to  yours  of  the  5th  inst. 
we  would  point  out  that  the  blue  Ruritania 
stamp  in  your  album  is  a  facsimile  and  not  a 
genuine  specimen.  If  it  were  genuine  the  value 
of  the  collection  would  be  £590.  Awaiting 
your  instructions  we  are. 

Yours  faithfully, 

Carstairs  &  Co. 

Claude  Maberley  to  Thomas  Blissett 
Dear  Tom, — Life  is  a  fraud,  a  sham,  a  hollow 
mockery,  and  dishonesty  is  the  world's  principal 
industry.  Reduced  to  plain  black  and  white, 
these  sentiments  mean  that  the  blue  Ruritania 
stamp  is  not  a  genuine  one  at  all,  worth  at 
least  £350,  but  a  counterfeit  worth  nothing. 
Your  poor  friend  who  owned  the  album  was 
deceived,  and  Dr.  Sevcrus,  Ronald's  dominie, 
seems  to  have  been  deceived,  too.  The  rest  of 
the  collection  is  good  enough  to  fetch  £240,  but 
the  diamond  of  great  price,  the  most  dazzling 
jewel  of  the  crown,  turns  out  to  be  paste.     At 

[101] 


Giving  and  Receiving 

the  moment  I  am  doing  nothing  more  about  it 
and    Ronald   thinks   only   of  birds'   eggs. 

Yours, 
Claude 

From    the    Personal    Column   of   "The    Times" 
Advertiser  wishes  to  buy  a  genuine  blue  Ruri- 
tania   stamp.     Price  must  be   named   in  reply. 
Write  Box  K,  No.  321  The  Times  Office. 

Mr.  Bennett  to  Box  K,  No.  321,  "Times"  Office 
Dear  Sir, — In  reply  to  your  advertisement  I 
can  offer  you  a  blue  Ruritania,  perfect  example, 
for  £370. 

I  am. 
Yours   faithfully, 

W.  S.  Bennett 

Mr.  Thomas  Blissett  to  Mr.  Bennett 
Dear  Sir, — I   will  call  upon  you  to  go  into 
the    matter    of    the    blue    Ruritania    to-morrow 
(Thursday)  at  4.S0. 

Yours  faithfully, 

Box  K,  No.  321. 

Thomas   Blissett   to   John   Grinlay,   Esq.,  B.A. 
If  Mr.  Grinlay  will  ask  for  Mr.  Holmes  at 
the  Junior  Carlton  Club  on  Thursday  next  at 
[102] 


The  Blue  Ruritania 

three  o'clock^  he  will  hear  of  something  to  his 
advantage. 

John    Grinlay    to   Henry    Thurston 
Dear  Old  Man, — I've  had  the  most  intriguing 
anonymous   letter    (which   I   enclose)    and   shall 
get  leave  to  come  up  and  see  the  unknown  bene- 
factor.    I  count  on  you  to  lunch  with  me  first. 

Yours, 

Jack 

Thomas  Blissett  to  Claude  Maberley 
Dear  Claude, — You  had  better  sell  the  album 
and  add  to  the  amount  the  cheque  I  am  enclos- 
ing for  £370.  This  represents  the  value  of 
the  blue  Ruritania  stamp  which  was  in  it  when 
I  sent  the  book  to  Ronald.  I  have  told  you, 
"What  I  have  given,  I  have  given," 

Having  some  suspicion  as  to  wliat  had  hap- 
pened, I  liavc  been  doing  a  little  amateur  sleuth- 
ing, and  yesterday  drew  a  full  confession  from 
the  culprit  and  a  promise  from  him — which  he 
will  keep — to  refund  by  degrees.  I  will  not  tell 
you  more  than  that  Ronald's  respected  Head 
Master  (if  you  ever  suspected  him)  is  as  inno- 
cent as  my  knee.  The  guilty  party  was  guilty 
only  througli  despair,  and  is  never  likely  to  go 
wrong  again.     Nor   am  I   likely   ever   more   to 

[103] 


Giving  and  Receiving 

give    schoolboys    stamp-albums    that    have    not 
been  examined  first  by  experts. 

Yours, 

Tom 

John  Grinlay  to  Harry  Thurston 
Dear  Old  Man, — I  can't  tell  you  what  hap- 
pened, after  all.  I  am  bound  to  secrecy.  I 
can  only  say  that  if  there  is  a  gentleman  in  the 
world  it  is  the  member  of  the  Junior  Carlton 
who  calls  himself  Mr.  Holmes.  I  am  so  happy 
I  don't  know  what  to  do. 

Yours  ever. 

Jack 


[104] 


SIGNS   AND  AVOIRDUPOIS 

100KING  out  of  the  train  window  on  the 
-i  Great  Eastern  the  other  day  I  caught 
sight  of  an  inn  called  "The  Safety  Valve,"  and 
the  novelty  of  the  name  set  me  reflecting  on 
signboards  generally  and,  in  particular,  their 
decay  as  an  index  to  current  events.  This  one 
with  the  unexpected  appellation  might,  of 
course,  have  been  christened  in  fun,  but  more 
likely  was  so  called  to  associate  it  with  the 
neighbouring  lines  of  metal  and  the  iron  horses 
that  career  up  and  down  them.  I  shall,  prob- 
ably, never  know.  If  I  am  right  and  it  came 
into  being  with  steam  engines,  we  have  approxi- 
mately its  date,  just  as,  with  more  certainty, 
we  know  when  "The  Waterloo  Arms"  was 
opened.  But  signboards  are  historians  no 
longer,  or  rather,  history  no  longer  can  count 
on  them  as  an  ally. 

It  is  possible  that  no  new  inns  are  ever  built 
in  these  days  of  grandmotherly  legislation.  I 
should  not  be  surprised.  Tlie  publican  has 
been  treated  in  late  years  with  such  studied 
unfairness  that  one  does  not  see  his  trade  luring 
many  recruits.     As  to  the  humiliation  which  an 

[105] 


Giving  and  Receiving 

ordinary  thirsty  Englishman  has  far  too  long 
been  feeling,  in  the  coils  of  petty  restrictions 
and  prohibitions,  I  prefer  to  say  nothing;  one 
must  keep  cool.  But  if  any  new  inns  do  come 
into  existence  I  have  no  notion  what  they  are 
called.  All  that  I  know  is  that  I  have  never 
seen  a  contemporary  sign.  I  have  never  seen 
a  "King  George's  Head"  with  the  features  of 
our  own  monarch  on  the  sign ;  I  have  never 
seen  a  "Queen's  Head"  with  the  features  of 
Queen  Mary;  I  have  only  once,  and  that  was  in 
Norfolk,  seen  a  "Prince  of  Wales's  Head"  with 
the  features  of  the  most  popular  young  man  in 
the  world.  There  are  plenty  of  "King's  Heads" 
and  "Queen's  Heads"  all  over  the  country,  but 
they  were  built  during  previous  reigns.  There 
is  a  "George"  in  every  old  town,  but  the  George 
so  honoured  is  either  I,  H,  HI,  or  IV,  and 
most  probably  III. 

Nor  does  the  nomenclature  of  our  hostelries 
keep  pace  with  the  changes  of  the  road.  There 
are  "Four  in  Hands"  all  over  the  country; 
"The  Coach  and  Horses"  is  a  common  sign. 
So  are  "The  Horse  Shoe,"  "The  Horse  and 
Groom,"  "The  White  Horse,"  "The  Black 
Horse."  But  I  know  of  no  "Motorist's  Arms," 
no  "Jolly  Shovers"  (even  though  Shovers  aren't 
jolly),  no  "Spark  and  Plug,"  no  "Tyre  and 
Hooter."  Bricklayers  have  "Arms"  every- 
[106] 


Signs  and  Avoirdupois 

where,  but  I  have  never  seen  Lorrymen  simi- 
larly provided,  and  yet  for  every  ten  brick- 
layers to-day  there  must  be  a  driver  of  a  heavy 
motor  wagon.  "Cricketers'  Arms"  are  dotted 
about  England,  but  no  one  ever  saw  "The 
Golfers'  Arms."  And  so  on.  At  a  certain  mo- 
ment all  effort  to  give  inns  signs  of  the  times 
seems  to  have  died  out. 

I  am  not  made  permanently  unhappy  by  the 
lapse;  but  I  have  one  very  serious  suggestion  to 
put  before  every  landlord  and  every  brewery 
with  tied  houses,  and  that  is  that  when  next  the 
time  comes  for  re-painting  the  facade  of  their 
inns,  the  name  of  the  town  or  village  shall 
always  be  added  to  the  sign.  For  some  reason 
or  other  it  has  been  decided  that  a  profound 
secret  shall  be  made  of  the  identity  of  English 
towns  and  villages.  In  France — at  any  rate  in 
the  Department  of  the  Marne — a  notice  is  fixed 
to  the  first  and  last  house  of  every  village,  giv- 
ing not  only  its  own  name,  but  the  name  of  its 
nearest  neighbour  on  the  road.  And  here  and 
there  in  England  the  Automobile  Association 
has  done  something  similar.  In  Surrey,  for 
example.  But  it  is  sporadic,  for  there  are  no 
such  signs  everywhere,  and  even  in  Surrey  I 
noticed  recently  that  the  boys  with  nothing  to 
do  on  Sunday  afternoons — honest  public  games 
being,  in  our  Puritan  folly,  forbidden,  althougli 

[107] 


Giving  and  Receivinpj 

the  voices  of  lawn-tennis  players  are  heard  in 
every  private  garden — have  thrown  stones  at 
the  enamel  until  most  of  the  words  have  been 
obliterated. 

The  result  is  that  if,  while  motoring  in  most 
parts  of  England,  you  miss  the  post  offiee  you 
miss  the  name  of  the  place  altogether;  and  the 
post  offiee  is  often  a  retired  cottage.  Sign-posts 
might  lielp  if  chauffeurs  would  allow  you  to 
read  them,  but  it  is  a  cardinal  tenet  of  the  chauf- 
feur's faith  to  forbid  such  frivolity.  If,  how- 
ever, the  sign-board  of  "The  Five  Bells"  at 
Bullingham  comprised  the  word  Bullingham  all 
would  be  simple.  Let  Boniface  do  what  no 
county  council  or  rural  or  urban  authority  deems 
necessary.  I  was  driven  the  other  day  from 
London  to  Rye  by  one  route,  and  back  by  an- 
other, and  was  completely  at  a  loss  except 
where  a  post  office  could  be  discovered,  and  in 
the  process  of  looking  for  the  post  office  the 
beauty  or  interest  of  the  place  had  to  be  sacri- 
ficed. 

But  I  must  not  pretend  that  when  I  enter  a 
motor  ear  I  am  ever  under  the  delusion  that  I 
am  going  to  see  the  country.  I  know  only  too 
well  that  the  car  is  not  the  friend  of  the  seeker 
after  beauty.  He  who  wants  to  know  anything 
of  the  charm  of  England  must  be  his  own  mas- 
ter, and  no  one  who  meddles  with  petrol  is  that. 
[108] 


Si^ns  and  Avoirdupois 

He  must  be  able  to  stop  at  will  and  lean  on 
gates,  to  turn  aside  into  footpaths,  even  to 
retrace  his  steps. 

Now  and  again  it  has  been  suggested  by  some 
sanguine  innovator — a  poet  with  the  backward 
look  or  an  architect  not  so  overburdened  with 
commissions  as  to  be  yet  mercenary — that  the 
sign-board  shall  be  revived  in  London.  Although 
belonging  to  neither  of  these  groups,  I  am  as 
strongly  in  favour  of  it;  for  the  sign  can  be  a 
very  attractive  thing,  gay  or  grave  in  colour 
and  simple  or  fantastic  in  design,  and  a  hundred 
of  them  hanging  out  from  their  bars  at  odd 
altitudes  would  make  our  streets  amusing  and 
picturesque.  Trade  also  should  follow  this 
form  of  flag.  But  the  reform  tarries  or  is  left 
to  tea  shops  and  such  little  odd  concerns  as 
flourish  (or  not)  in  single  rooms  in  South  Moul- 
ton  Street,  where  there  are  more  signs,  for  its 
length,  than,  I  believe,  in  any  London  thor- 
oughfare. 

Were  the  board  to  come  back,  one  of  the 
pleasantest  old  world  signs  would  be  that  of  the 
"Coffee  Mill,"  which  would  be  seen  merrily 
flaunting  itself  a  few  yards  from  the  foot  of  St. 
James's  Street  on  the  left  as  you  descend  the 
hill;  for  it  is  the  original  style  of  that  ancient 
wine  oftice  at  No.  H  which  you  may  have  noticed 
even  if  you  never  have  entered  it:  a  dark  som- 

[109] 


Giving  and  Receiving 

hrr  house  of  business,  externally,  with  a  side 
front  on  the  little  backwater  known  as  Picker- 
ing Place,  which  still  defies  the  march  of  prog- 
ress but  has  not  recaptured  its  popularity  either 
as  a  gaming  centre,  as  it  was  in  the  eighteenth 
century,  when  it  was  called  Pickering  Court, 
or  as  a  duelling  ground. 

Pickering  Place  owes  its  name  to  the  worthy 
tea  and  tobacco  merchant  who  was  its  principal 
resident,  and  it  was  his  business — at  the  sign  of 
the  "Coffee  Mill" — which  came  in  time  into  the 
hands  of  the  present  occupiers  of  No.  3  St. 
James's  Street,  Messrs.  Berry  Brothers  &  Co. ; 
but  they,  relinquishing  their  predecessor's  ver- 
satility, pin  their  faith  solely  to  those  generous 
juices  which  America  has  latterly  repudiated. 
England  also,  it  is  said,  may  follow  suit,  but 
at  the  sign  of  the  "Coffee  Mill"  scepticism  as 
to  this  revolution  thrives  and  withers  are  un- 
wrung.  It  is  not  however  of  wine  that  I  would 
write,  but  of  avoirdupois.     Men  of  weight. 

Surprising  things  happen  in  London  so  often 
that  gradually  the  element  of  surprise  disap- 
pears, and  it  is  only  a  question  of  time  for  us  to 
be  prepared  for  all.  A  recent  metropolitan  dis- 
covery of  mine — which  I  might  have  made 
thirty  years  before,  if  the  clock  had  struck — 
is  that  at  the  sign  of  the  "Coffee  Mill"  in  St. 
James's  Street  is  a  pair  of  scales  on  which,  for 
[110] 


Si^s  and  Avoirdupois 

fully  a  century  and  a  half,  all  that  was  most 
eminent  in  human  form  has  sat  to  be  weighed, 
and  is  still  sitting;  and  that  ever  since  the  year 
1765  accurate  records  of  illustrious  and  often 
regal  ponderosity  have  been  kept.  It  was  ab- 
surd to  have  lived  in  London  since  1892  and  to 
have  learned  this  only  in  1920;  but  that  illus- 
trates both  the  tangle  of  caprice  which  (for 
want  of  a  better  word)  we  caU  life,  and  the 
inexhaustibility  of  our  city. 

"If  you  want  to  know  how  much  Charles 
Lamb  weighed  in  1814,  I  can  tell  you  the  way 
to  find  out" — it  was  that  casual  remark  which 
put  me  at  last  on  the  scent ;  and  now  I  can 
supply  devout  Elians  with  the  information  that 
in  1814,  when  he  was  thirty-nine,  their  divinity 
turned  the  scale,  in  his  boots,  at  9  stone,  3  lb. ; 
or  almost  a  stone  more  than  I  was  expecting 
after  so  much  evidence  as  to  his  "immaterial" 
form.  But  his  boots  may  have  been  very 
heavy. 

Having  made  the  start  I  continued  investiga- 
tions, with  the  assistance  of  an  analysis  of  the 
book  which  one  of  the  partners  has  made. 
Keeping  to  literature  I  discovered  that  Lord 
Byron,  wlioin  we  know  to  have  been  sensitive 
about  his  l)ulk,  was  weighed  many  times,  first 
in  1806,  when  he  was  living  at  No.  8,  only  five 
doors  away.      He   was  then    13  stone    12  lb.   in 

[111] 


Giving  and  Receiving 

his  boots.     This  result  must  have  distressed  ex- 
ceedingly one  who  lived  in  fear  of  embonpoint, 
even   to   the    drinking   of    vinegar   and   general 
mortification   of   the   flesh.      In    1807,   in   shoes 
only,  he  had  got  it  down  to  10  stone  13  lb.,  and 
in    1811,   again   in  shoes,  to   9  stone   lll^   lb. 
Tom   Moore,  his   Lordship's  biographer,  seems 
similarly  to  have  decreased,  for  in  1807  he  was 
10   stone   6   lbs.   and   in    1809,   8    stone   13   lb. 
Another  famous  man  who  can  also  have  had  no 
wish  to  lose  his  figure,  and  who  will  go  down 
to  history  as  much  for  his  insolent  question  as 
to  the  identity  of  the  Prince  Regent  (with  whom 
he  had  quarrelled)  "Who's  your  fat  friend?"  as 
for  his  fastidiousness  in  ties,  dwindled  too.     In 
1798  he  was  12  stone  4  lb.,  in  boots;  in  1811, 
13  stone  10  lb.  in  boots  and  frock;  and  in  1815, 
12    stone    lOl^    lb.,    in    shoes.        In    1815    the 
Beau's  reign  was  nearing  its   end,  for  a  year 
later  he  had  to  fly  from  his  creditors  to  Calais. 
None  the  less  there  is  still  one  more  entry,  in 
1822,  suggesting  that  he  was  able  to  visit  the 
scenes  of  his  old  triumphs  yet  once  again,  and 
then  he  was   10  stone   13  lb.  in  boots.     As  for 
the   fat   friend,   he   was   here   many  times.     In 
1791    he  weighed   17  stone  4  lb.,  in  boots;  in 
1798,  16  stone  "after  gout";  in  1800,  17  stone 
9  lb.   in  hat   and  boots;   and  later  that  year, 
[112] 


Si^s  and  Avoirdupois 

16   stone   5   lb.    "after   gout";   in    1803,   "with 
gout,"  15  stone  8  lb. 

Many  of  William  Hickey's  boon  companions 
came  to  the  "Coffee  Mill"  to  be  weighed,  but 
there  is  no  record  of  a  visit  by  himself.  The 
Earl  of  Peterborough,  for  example,  who  was  one 
of  the  original  members  of  the  Dining  Club  of 
twenty — "the  dinner  to  consist  of  every  article 
procurable  whether  in  or  out  of  season":  a  good 
preparation  for  the  "Coflfee  Mill's"  scales. 
Thomas  Creevey  the  diarist  was  on  the  heavy 
side:  in  1808,  14  stone,  and  1837,  15  stone  7  lb. 
Abraham  Hayward  was  much  lighter,  being,  in 
1836,  in  boots,  only  8  stone  2Y2  lb.  Joseph 
Hume,  the  economist  and  Radical,  before  he  was 
weighed  laid  aside  his  coat  and  his  watch  but 
retained  his  boots.  Quite  a  number  of  the  more 
particular  clients  stripped  absolutely  and  had 
the  doors  closed,  among  them  Lord  Dunmore. 
Charles  James  Fox  in  1773,  in  his  boots, 
weighed  12  stone  8  lb.;  in  1781,  in  shoes,  13 
stone  12  lb.  George  Cruikshank  was  on  the 
scales  in  1826,  but  how  the  author  of  The 
Bottle  and  The  Triumph  of  Bacchus  could 
bring  himself  to  enter  this  establishment  I  can- 
not understand.  In  1826  he  weighed  11  stone 
2  lb.,  and  in  1840,  9  stone  12V2  ^b.  The  Iron 
Duke  is  absent,  but  many  illustrious  soldiers 
are  in  the  records,  among  them  Sir  John  Moore, 

[113] 


Giving  and  Receiving 

12  stone  1  lb.  in  shoes  in  1784,  and  11  stone 
liy^  lb.  in  half  boots  in  1808;  Sir  Colin  Camp- 
bell, 11  stone  6  lb.  in  1827;  and  Captain  Fred 
Burnaby,  who  was  a  giant,  14  stone  IOY2  ^^• 

The    heaviest   man    who   ever   burdened    the 
"Coffee   Mill"   scales   was   Mr.   George   Drum- 
mond  who,  in   1850,  registered  25  stone   12  lb. 
But  his  negligible  bulk  compared  with  that  of 
Mr.    Bright    of    Maldon,    who,   at   the    age    of 
twenty-nine,   when   he  laid   aside   his   panoply, 
weighed  44  stone.     No  visit  of  Mr.  Bright  to 
the   "Coffee  Mill"  is   recorded,  but  there   is   a 
print  on  the  office  wall  depicting  the  wager  be- 
tween Mr.  Codd  and  Mr.  Hants,  the  bet  being 
that  seven  men  could  be  buttoned   within   Mr. 
Bright's  waistcoat.      It  was  easily  won,  on  De- 
cember 1,  1750,  in  the  "Black  Bull"  at  Maldon, 
kept  at  that  time  by  the  Widow  Day.     Whether 
there  are  any  such  colossi  now   I   cannot  say. 
Mr.    Chesterton   is,   to   the    familiar   press,   the 
recognized  example  of  heroic  girth,  and  many 
are  the  jokes  on  the  subject — such  as  his  gal- 
lantry in  standing  in  an  omnibus  to   offer   his 
seat  to  three  ladies — but  there  is  an  element  of 
myth  in  the  whole   affair.     It  is   my   privilege 
to  know  Mr.  Chesterton,  and  I  can  assure  those 
who  do  not  that  he   is   not  so  immense   as   all 
that — not,  I  mean,  in  body.     In  mind  and  sym- 
pathies, yes.     Meanwhile,  just  to  prove  that  an 
[114] 


Si^s  and  Avoirdupois 

interest  in  amplitude  and  pingnidity  still  ob- 
tains, let  me  mention  that  I  saw  a  Scotch  paper 
the  other  day  in  which  the  proprietor  of  a 
Waxworks  Exhibition  advertised  for  a  char- 
woman: "Must  weigh  over  20  stone.  Wages 
£l  a  day." 


[115] 


FOR  OURSELVES  ALONE 

OUR  hostess  had  taken  us  over  to  "Shel- 
tered End/'  the  pleasant  country  home 
of  Mrs.  Willoughby  Brock,  to  play  tennis.  As, 
however,  there  was  only  one  court,  and  quite  a 
number  of  young  and  middle-aged  people  were 
standing  near  it  with  racquets  in  their  hands 
and  an  expression  on  their  faces  in  which  frus- 
tration and  anticipation  fouglit  for  supremacy, 
it  followed  that  other  beguilements  had  to  be 
found.  My  own  fate  was  to  fall  into  the  hands 
of  Mrs.  Brock,  whose  greatest  delight  on  earth 
seems  to  be  to  have  a  stranger  to  whom  she  can 
display  the  beauties  of  her  abode  and  enlarge 
upon  the  unusual  qualities  of  her  personality. 

She  showed  and  told  me  all.  We  explored 
the  estate,  from  the  dog-kennel  to  the  loggia  for 
sleeping  out  "under  the  stars";  from  the  per- 
gola to  the  library;  from  the  sundial  to  the 
telephone,  "the  only  one  for  miles";  and  as  we 
walked  between  the  Michaelmas  daisies  in  her 
long  herbaceous  borders,  with  Red  Admiral 
butterflies  among  the  myriad  little  clean  purple 
and  mauve  blossoms,  she  said  how  odd  it  was 
that  some  people  have  the  gift  of  attracting 
[116] 


For  Ourselves  Alone 

friends  and  others  not;  and  what  a  strange 
thing  it  is  that  where  one  person  has  to  toil  to 
make  a  circle,  others  are  automatically  sur- 
rounded by  nice  creatures;  and  asked  me  if  I 
had  any  views  as  to  the  reason,  but  did  not 
pause  for  the  reply. 

It  was  a  warm  mellow  day — almost  the  first 
of  summer,  according  to  one's  senses,  although 
nearly  the  last,  according  to  the  calendar — and 
Mrs.  Brock  was  so  happy  to  be  in  a  monologue 
that  I  could  enjoy  the  garden  almost  without 
interruption.  For  a  two  and  a  half  years' 
existence  it  certainly  was  a  triumph.  Here  and 
there  a  reddening  apple  shone.  The  hollyhocks 
must  have  been  ten  feet  high. 

"Ah !  here  comes  the  dear  Vicar,"  said  Mrs. 
Brock  suddenly,  and,  rising  from  a  rose  which  I 
had  stooped  down  to  inhale  (and  I  wish  that 
people  would  grow  roses,  as  they  used  to  do 
years  ago,  nose-high),  I  saw  a  black  figure  ap- 
proaching. 

"He  is  such  a  charming  man,"  Mrs.  Brock 
continued,  "and  devoted  to  me." 

"Good  afternoon,"  said  the  Vicar.  "How 
exquisite  those  delphiniums  are !"  he  added  after 
introductions  were  complete;  "such  a  delicate 
blue !  I  should  not  liave  intruded  had  I  known 
you  had  a  party" — he  waved  his  hand  towards 
the  single  tennis-court,  around  which  the  wistful 

[117] 


Giving  and  Receiving 

racquet-bearers  were  now  (as  it  seemed)  some 
thousands  strong,  "but  it  is  always  a  pleasure" 
— he  turned  to  me — "to  be  able  to  walk  in  this 
paradise  on  a  fine  day  and  appreciate  its  colour 
and  its  fragrance.  I  find  Mrs.  Brock  so  valu- 
able a  parochial  counsellor  too." 

"I  think/'  I  said,  not  in  the  least  unwilling 
to  be  tactful,  "I  will  see  what  the  rest  of  our 
party  are  doing." 

"Oh,  no,"  said  the  Vicar;  "please  don't  let 
me  drive  you  away.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  since 
there  are  so  many  here  I  won't  stay  myself. 
But  I  wonder,"  he  addressed  Mrs.  Brock,  "as  I 
am  here,  if  I  might  use  your  telephone  for  a 
moment?" 

"Of  course,"  said  she. 

"Thank  you  so  much,"  he  replied;  "yes,  I 
know  where  it  is,"  and  with  a  genial  and  courtly 
salutation  he  moved  oflf  in  the  direction  of  the 
house. 

"Such  a  true  neighbour!"  said  Mrs.  Brock. 
"Ah !  and  here  is  another,"  she  went  on.  And 
along  the  same  path,  where  the  Michaelmas 
daisies  were  thickest,  I  saw  a  massive  woman  in 
white,  like  a  ship  in  full  sail,  bearing  down  upon 
us,  defending  her  head  from  the  gentle  Septem- 
ber sun  with  a  red  parasol.  "This,"  Mrs. 
Brock  hurriedly  informed  me,  "is  Lady  Cran- 
stone, who  lives  in  the  house  with  the  green 
[118] 


For  Ourselves  Alone 

shutters  at  the  end  of  the  village.  Such  a  dear 
person !  She's  always  in  and  out.  The  widow 
of  the  famous  scientist,  you  know." 

I  didn't  know;  but  what  did  it  matter? 

By  this  time  the  dear  person  was  within  hail- 
ing distance,  but  she  flew  no  signals  of  cor- 
diality; her  demeanour  indeed  struck  me  as 
austere  and  arrogant.  Mrs.  Brock  hurried 
towards  her  to  assist  her  to  her  moorings,  and  I 
was  duly  presented. 

"I  didn't  intend  to  come  in  again  to-day," 
said  Lady  Cranstone,  whose  features  still  suc- 
cessfully failed  to  give  to  the  stranger  any 
indication  of  the  benignity  that,  it  was  sug- 
gested, irradiated  her  being. 

"But  you  are  always  so  welcome,"  said  Mrs. 
Brock.  "Lady  Cranstone,"  she  continued  to 
me,  "is  kindness  itself.  She  makes  all  the  dif- 
ference  between   loneliness   and — and   content." 

Lady  Cranstone  picked  a  rose  and  pinned  it 
in  her  monumental  bosom.  "I  don't  know  tliat 
I  had  anything  in  particular  to  say,"  she  re- 
marked. "I  chanced  to  be  passing  and  I 
merely  looked  in;  but  since  I  am  here  perhaps 
you  would  aHow  me  to  use  your  telephone " 

Mrs.  Brock  expressed  her  delighted  acquies- 
cence and  tlie  frigate  sailed  on.  "You've  no 
idea,"  said  Mrs.  lirock,  "what  a  friendly  crowd 
there  is  in  these  parts.     I  don't  know  how  it  is, 

[119] 


Giving  and  Receiving 

but  this  little  place  of  mine,  modest  though  it 
is,  and  unassuming  and  unclever  as  I  am,  is 
positively  the  very  centre  of  the  district.  It's 
like  a  club  house.  How  strange  life  is !  What 
curious  byways  there  are  in  human  sympathy!" 

This  being  the  kind  of  remark  that  is  best 
replied  to  with  an  inarticulate  murmur,  I  pro- 
vided an  inarticulate  murmur;  and  I  was  about 
to  make  a  further  and  more  determined  effort 
to  get  away  when  a  maid-servant  approached 
with  a  card. 

Mrs.  Brock  took  it  and  read  the  name  with  a 
little  cry  of  satisfaction.  "Lord  Risborough," 
she  said  to  me.  "At  last!  How  nice  of  him  to 
call.  They  live  at  Risborough  Park,  you  know. 
I  always  said  they  would  never  condescend  to 
dignify  'Sheltered  End'  with  their  presence; 
but  I  somehow  knew  they  would."  She  purred 
a  little.  And  then,  "Where  is  his  lordship?" 
she  asked;  but  the  girl's  reply  was  rendered 
unnecessary  by  the  nobleman  himself,  who  ad- 
vanced briskly  upon  Mrs.  Brock,  hat  in  hand. 

"I  trust,"  he  said,  "that  you  will  pardon  the 
informality  of  this  visit.  Lady  Risborough  is  so 
sorry  not  to  have  been  able  to  call  yet,  but — 

but Yes,  I  was  wondering  if  you'd  be  so 

very  kind  as  to  do  me  a  little  favour?  The  fact 
is  our  telephone  is  out  of  order — most  annoy- 
[120] 


For  Ourselves  Alone 

ing — and  I  wondered  if  you  would  let  me  use 
yours.     I  hear  that  you  have  one." 

"I  will  take  you  to  it,"  said  Mrs.  Brock. 

"Most  kind,  most  kind!"  his  lordship  was 
muttering. 

There  was  no  difficulty  in  making  my  escape 
now. 


[121] 


ANOTHER  "YOUNG  CRICKETERS' 
TUTOR" 

MOHUMMUD  ABDULLAH  KHAN'S 
Cricket  Guide  was  published  in  Luckuow 
in  1891,  the  full  title  being  Cricket  Guide  in- 
tended  for  the  use  of  Young  Players,  containing 
a  Short  but  Comprehensive  Account  of  the 
Game,  embracing  all  the  important  Rules  and 
Directions  nicely  arranged  in  due  Succession. 
The  reason  given  by  the  Indian  Nyren  for  put- 
ting forth  this  work  was  the  wish  to  allay  the 
fever  which  cricket  seems  then  to  have  been 
provoking  in  his  compatriots.  Those  who  re- 
member the  sang-froid,  the  composed  mastery, 
of  Prince  Ranjitsinhji  may  be  surprised  to  learn 
that,  at  any  rate  in  1891,  cricket  had  a  way  of 
rushing  to  young  India's  head.  "Even  those," 
wrote  Mohummud  Abdullah  Khan,  "who  are 
very  good  and  noble  (say,  next-door  to  angels) 
turn  so  rash  and  inconsiderate  at  certain  mo- 
ments that  their  brains  lose  the  balance  and 
begin  to  take  fallacious  fancies."  More,  they 
"boil  over  with  rage,  pick  up  quarrels  with  one 
another,  and  even  look  daggers  at  their  own 
dearest  friends  and  darlings,"  the  cause  being 
[122] 


Another  "Young  Cricketers'  Tutor" 

not  only  the  game  itself,  but  an  ignorance  of 
the  laws  that  should  govern  it  and  them,  and 
without  obedience  to  which  "a  human  body  is 
nothing  but  a  solid  piece  of  rocky  hill,  that  is 
to  say  'cleverness.'  "  Very  well,  then.  Feel- 
ing as  he  did  about  it,  Mohummud  Abdullah 
Khan  had  no  alternative  but  to  write  his  book. 

Practical  as  the  instructions  of  this  Oriental 
teacher  can  be,  it  is  deportment  that  really  lies 
nearest  his  heart.  He  is  as  severe  on  a  want 
of  seriousness  as  upon  loss  of  temper.  Thus,  he 
says:  "The  fielders  must  take  especial  care  not 
to  exchange  jokes  with  one  another  or  try 
funny  tricks  that  do  secretly  divide  their  atten- 
tion and  produce  a  horrible  defect  in  their  field- 
ing." Again,  "Behave  like  gentlemen  after  the 
game  is  over;  avoid  clapping  and  laughing  in 
faces  of  the  persons  you  have  defeated."  But 
there  is  no  harm  in  a  match  being  momentarily 
interrupted  by  a  touch  of  courtesy.  Thus:  "If 
you  are  the  Captain  of  your  team  and  the 
fielders  of  the  opposite  party  clap  your  welcome, 
you  are  required  simply  to  turn  or  raise  your 
night  cap  a  little,  and  this  is  sufficient  to  prove 
your  easy  turn  of  disj)osition  as  well  as  to  fur- 
nish the  return  of  tlicir  coinj^liments." 

For  the  most  part  the  directions  are  sound, 
even  if  they  may  be  a  little  obscure  in  state- 
ment; but  now  and  then  one  is  puzzled.     The 

[123] 


Giviiipf  and  Receiving 

game  in  India  must  have  been  animated  indeed 
if  no  error  has  crept  into  the  following  note 
on  the  bowler:  "During  one  and  the  same  over 
the  bowler  is  allowed  to  change  his  ends  as 
often  as  he  may  desire,  but  cannot  possibly 
bowl  two  overs  in  succession."  And  this  reads 
oddly:  "The  bowler  is  allowed  to  make  the  bats- 
man stand  in  any  direction  he  may  choose  from 
the  wicket  he  is  bowling  from."  But  no  fault 
can  be  found  here:  "The  bowler  must  always 
try  to  pitch  his  ball  in  such  a  style  and  position 
that  its  spring  may  always  rest  on  the  wickets 
to  be  aimed  at.  He  must  know  the  proper  rules 
of  no  halls  and  wides  and" — here  we  are  again ! 
— "must  never  be  wishing  to  pick  up  any  quarrel 
with  the  umpire  of  the  opposite  party." 

And  so  we  reach  the  umpires,  upon  whom  the 
author  becomes  very  earnest.  Under  the  frenetic 
conditions  to  which  cricket  could  reduce  his 
countrymen,  to  act  as  umpire  was  no  joke.  In- 
deed he  goes  so  far  as  to  advise  the  reader  never 
to  fill  that  position  except  when  the  match  is 
between  teams  personally  unknown  to  him. 
For  to  umpire  among  friends  is  to  turn  those 
friends  to  foes.  "Take  special  care,  my  dear 
umpires,  not  to  call  over  unless  the  ball  has 
finall}'^  settled  in  the  wicket-keeper's  hand,  as 
well  as  avoid  ordering  a  batsman  out  unless  you 
are  appealed  to  by  the  opposite  party.  .  .  . 
[124] 


Another  "Young  Cricketers'  Tutor" 

Each  and  every  one  of  the  umpires  must  avoid 
using  insulting  terms,  or  playing  on  bets  with 
any  one  of  the  fielders  or  persons  in  general,  in 
his  capacity  of  being  an  umpire." 

The  requirements  of  a  perfect  wicket-keeper 
are  well  set  forth.  After  describing  his  some- 
what "stooping  conditions"  the  mentor  says,  "I 
would  like  this  man  to  be  of  a  grave  demean- 
our and  humble  mind,  say  the  Captain  of  the 
Club,  whose  duties  are  to  guide  the  fielders, 
order  the  change  of  their  places  if  necessary," 
and  "guard  himself  well  against  the  furious 
attacks  of  the  sweeping  balls."  Here  Mohum- 
mud  Abdullah  Khan  is  among  some  of  the  best 
critics,  who  have  always  held  that  for  the  cap- 
tain to  be  wicket-keeper  (as,  for  example,  in  the 
case  of  Gregor  MacGregor)  is  an  ideal  arrange- 
ment. 

Point  also  needs  some  special  qualities:  "He 
must  be  a  very  smart  and  very  clever  man, 
of  a  quick  sight  and  slender  form."  (Slender 
form.''  And  yet  one  has  seen  "W.  G."  doing 
not  so  badly  there!)  "His  place  is  in  front  of 
the  popping-crcase,  about  seven  yards  from  the 
striker.  He  must  take  special  care  to  protect 
his  own  person  in  case  when  fast  bowling  is 
raging  through  the  field.  I'ay  great  attention 
to  the  game,  my  dear  pointer,  or  suppose  your- 
self already  hurt." 

[125] 


ON  BEING  A  FOREIGNER 

AFTER  living  securely  on  one's  own  native 
Jr\  soil  for  years  and  years,  not  veithout  sus- 
picion as  to  the  sanity,  cleanliness,  morality, 
and  general  suitability  of  the  inhabitants  of  all 
the  other  countries  of  the  world,  it  is  startling 
to  set  foot  on  alien  ground  and  realize  that  one 
has  suddenly  become  a  foreigner  oneself;  that 
one  is  a  kind  of  trespasser,  a  dweller  elsewhere 
on  sufferance ;  that  one's  own  people,  and  (even 
more  important)  one's  own  vocabulary,  are  over 
there,  behind.  This  is — or  should  be — one  of 
those  moments  when  we  pause  and  take  stock, 
overwhelmed  by  the  thought,  so  impressive  to 
Thomas  Hood,  "that  even  the  little  children 
speak  French  !"  But  different  people,  of  course, 
act  in  different  ways,  and,  while  the  humble 
will  realize  their  foreignness  and  walk  warily, 
the  arrogant  will  do  everything  in  their  power 
to  annex  the  new  territory  as  their  own  and 
make  its  natives  feel  like  outcasts  and  excres- 
cences. The  fury  of  a  woman  scorned  I  have 
seen  reduced  to  meekness  in  comparison  with 
the  rage  of  a  certain  kind  of  traveller  at  logger- 
heads with  a  porter  who  has  the  effrontery  to 
understand  no  language  but  his  own. 
[126] 


On  Being  a  Foreigner 

That  is  a  not  too  uncommon  sight  at  Calais 
and  Boulogne;  and  I  have  always  thought  it 
would  be  interesting  to  meet  the  same  travellers 
on  their  way  back  and  to  see  how  they  have 
improved — what  being  a  foreigner  has  done  for 
them.  For  there  should  be  no  state  more  in- 
structive and,  often,  humiliating. 

Dividing  foreigners  into  the  bad  and  the  good, 
I  should  say — but  first  of  all  we  must  make  up 
our  minds  as  to  what  a  good  foreigner  is.  For 
example,  there  is  a  story  of  an  English  intoler- 
ant who,  on  hearing  that  a  friend  had  returned 
from  abroad  in  shattered  health,  remarked,  "Fve 
always  said  that  abroad  was  a  nasty  place." 
Now  this  speaker  could  be  described  both  as  a 
very  bad  foreigner  or  a  very  good  one,  according 
as  the  case  is  considered.  A  good  foreigner, 
you  see,  may  equally  be  the  alien  who  is  most 
readily  absorptive  of  the  habits  and  customs  of 
the  country  he  is  now  in,  or  the  alien  who  retains 
and  guards  the  greatest  number  of  native  pecu- 
liarities and  is  proud  of  doing  so.  In  the  first 
case  he  would  be  a  better  emigrant  than  in 
the  other,  but  as  to  his  merits  as  a  foreigner 
you  pay  your  money  and  you  take  your  choice. 
If  we  take  the  second  group  to  be  the  more 
admirable — and  in  a  way  it  must  be  so,  for  it  is 
better  to  cherish  personality  than  to  see  it 
blurred  and  misty,  without  definition — then  the 

[127] 


Giving  and  Receiving 

French  are  among  the  best  foreigners  of  all. 
Their  reluctance  to  leave  their  country  causes 
them,  when  they  are  forced  to  take  the  horrid 
step,  to  carry  as  much  of  it  about  with  them  as 
they  can;  to  meet  only  their  compatriots;  to 
dine  in  restaurants  where  the  cuisine  is  French; 
and  to  embrace  every  opportunity  of  not  acquir- 
ing the  language,  or  if,  for  reasons  of  diplomacy 
or  commerce,  it  must  be  acquired,  to  cling 
passionately  to  their  own  accent.  Englishmen 
have  occasionally  been  found  to  speak  French 
like  a  native,  but  no  Frenchman  ever  spoke 
English  in  that  way.  It  is  not  the  Frenchman's 
fault;  it  is  due  to  the  way  he  is  made.  The 
problems  of  ethnology  are  indeed  endless.  The 
impossibility  of  a  man  living  at  Calais  being 
able  to  pronounce  even  the  simple  monosyllable 
"No"  like  a  man  living  twenty-one  miles  north 
of  him,  at  Dover,  is  only  one  of  thousands.  It 
should  have  been  enough  for  the  Tower  of  Babel 
to  confuse  tongues;  to  go  on  to  construct 
larynges  incapable  of  reproducing  one's  neigh- 
bours' vowel  sounds  at  all  was  gratuitous.  Yet 
that  is  what  happened.  When  an  Englishman 
talks  French  like  an  Englishman  the  reason 
often  enough  is  that  he  would  die  rather  than 
subject  his  mouth  to  the  undignified  contortions 
that  are  necessary  if  any  Gallic  illusion  is  to  be 
set  up.  To  talk  like  a  Frenchman  would  not 
[1281 


On  Being  a  Foreigner 

be  an  impossibility.  But  a  Frenchman's  vocal 
arrangements — the  tone  of  his  voice  alone — are 
wholly  incapable  of  being  bent  to  the  desired 
end.  This,  then,  is  one  reason  why  the  French- 
man is  the  best  foreigner;  but  the  principal  rea- 
son is  that  he  does  not  want  to  assimilate;  he 
wants  never  to  settle  down,  but  eternally  to  be 
on  the  qui  vive  (his  own  phrase)  to  hear  la  belle 
France  calling  him  back. 

When  we  take  the  other  meaning  of  "best" 
as  applied  to  a  foreigner — namely,  the  most 
successfully  assimilative — the  Englishman  comes 
perhaps  first,  by  reason  of  his  willingness  to  live 
out  of  his  own  country,  and  of  an  inexhaustible 
curiosity  that  leads  him  to  explorations  which 
often  provide  him  with  a  deeper  knowledge  of 
the  adopted  land  than  many  of  its  own  inhabi- 
tants possess,  although,  of  course,  only  in  spots. 
I  don't  think  Americans  make  such  good  for- 
eigners, in  this  sense,  as  the  English;  but  there 
is  no  comparison  between  America  and  England 
in  the  capacity  of  the  two  countries  to  turn  a 
foreigner  into  a  citizen.  It  is  America's  large- 
hearted  way  to  insist  upon  the  aliens  who  reach 
her  shores  becoming  Americans  as  quickly  as 
possible,  and  the  guests  fall  easily  and  naturally 
into  lint;,  lint  aliens  in  England  come  in  for 
some  very  hard  knocks  in  tlic  House  of  Com- 
mons and  in  the  Press,  and,  since  the  War,  they 

[129] 


Giviii<^  and  Receiving 

have  effected  a  landing  only  with  difficulty. 
There  are  reasons  enough  for  this,  but  a  single 
one  is  sufficient.  England  is  a  small  country, 
not  so  big  as  the  state  of  New  York,  and  there 
simply  isn't  room  for  them.  Those  that  have 
transplanted  themselves  there  are  always  think- 
ing about  the  blissful  day  when  they  can  go 
home  again.  I  don't  say  that  they  do  go  home; 
but  they  talk  about  going,  plan  for  it,  save  up 
for  it,  and,  I  think,  mean  to  depart.  For  years 
the  staple  of  conversation  between  an  Italian 
barber  in  London  and  myself  has  been  his  dream 
of  ultimate  retirement  to  Livorno,  there  to  be 
happy  among  his  spaghetti  and  Chianti,  to  sit 
outside  the  cafe  under  a  trustworthy  sun,  where 
he  will  discuss  politics  and  never  give  a  glance 
to  any  chevelure  or  chin  but  his  own.  Very 
likely  he  will  never  go,  and  his  bones  will  even- 
tually be  deposited  in  the  Italian  cemetery  at 
Kensal  Green;  but  to  go  is  his  hope  and  his 
desire.  Yet  it  is  conceivable  that  he  will  be 
happier  to  toy  with  the  hope  and  defer  its  fulfil- 
ment. 

One  of  the  worst  calamities  that  can  come 
upon  a  man  must  be  this:  to  live  abroad  for 
so  long  that  when  at  last  he  returns  to  his  own 
country  be  is  a  foreigner  there.  A  worse  calam- 
ity is  not  to  want  to  return  at  all.  There  is 
usually  something  very  wrong  with  a  man  whose 
[130] 


On  Being  a  Foreigner 

denationalization  is  wilful.     To  forswear  one's 
own  country  is  treachery. 

But  there  can  be  such  a  thing  as  denational- 
ization by  force.  I  was  hearing  the  other  day 
of  an  American  of  distinguished  attainments 
who  for  so  long  has  been  domiciled  in  Switzer- 
land that  he  has  become  a  new  Philip  Nolan — 
a  man  without  a  country.  America,  it  appears, 
insists  on  the  periodical  return  of  her  sons  to 
the  motherland  if  they  are  to  retain  the  privilege 
of  family  membership;  and  it  is  more  than  fifty 
years  since  this  scholar  and  Alpinist  was  at 
home. 

Do  the  Italians  in  America  feel  the  same 
nostalgia  as  my  friend,  I  wonder,  or  are  they  all 
Americans.-*  Those  that  I  met  in  New  York,  in 
the  district  just  below  Washington  Square, 
seemed  contented  enough,  and  to  be  in  their 
restaurants  was  to  feel  perfectly  at  Rome;  but 
more  than  one  of  them  confessed  that  the  loss 
of  the  vino  was  making  the  exile  distasteful  in 
a  new  way. 

I  have  said  that  the  English  become  willing 
foreigners,  but  the  Scotch  go  beyond  willingness 
— they  arc  eager  to  emigrate.  Doctor  Johnson 
had  always  something  caustic  at  liis  tongue's 
end  to  say  on  this  subject,  but  the  famous 
couplet  by  Cleveland  is  the  deadliest  com- 
mentary : 

[181] 


Giving'  and  Receiving 

Had   Cain   been   Scot,   God   would   liave   changed   his 

doom : 
Not  forced  bim  wander,  but  condemned  him  home. 

Still,  it  is  neither  the  English  nor  the  Scotch 
who  are  the  best  foreigners  in  our  first  sense  of 
the  word  best.  They  live  abroad  and  accommo- 
date themselves  among  strange  peoples,  but  they 
cannot  forget  the  place  of  their  birth.  It  may 
not  be  ever  present  in  their  minds,  as  it  is  with 
exiles  from  the  fair  land  of  France,  but  it  is 
there.  When,  however,  we  come  to  the  best 
foreigners  of  all  this  thought  does  not  trouble; 
the  Jews  are  undisturbed  by  ghosts  from  their 
native  land.  The  Jews,  having  no  country  of 
their  own,  make  whatever  country  they  settle 
in  theirs.  Only  one  of  them  wanders;  the  rest 
establish  themselves,  prosper,  and  gradually 
become  more  American  than  the  Americans, 
more  English  than  the  English,  more  French 
than  the  French. 

With  the  English  the  art  of  becoming  a 
foreigner  is  a  more  drastic  matter  than  with  a 
Frenchman  or  any  other  Continental.  A  French- 
man has  merely  to  slip  across  the  frontier  be- 
tween his  country  and  his  neighbours*  to  be- 
come a  foreigner  in  Belgium,  Germany,  Switzer- 
land, Italy,  or  Spain.  If  he  chances  to  live 
near  one  of  the  borders,  it  may  be  an  everyday 
occurrence  for  him.  Even  an  American  can 
[132] 


On  Being  a  Foreigner 

become  a  foreigner  in  Canada  or  Mexico  with- 
out undergoing  the  torture  of  a  sea  crossing. 
But  the  English  are  doomed.  The  Englishman 
in  order  to  become  a  foreigner  must  cross  the 
sea,  and  this  makes  it  an  event.  He  thus  has 
time  not  only  to  reflect  upon  what  he  is  doing, 
but  (when  Britannia  is  ruling  the  waves  indif- 
ferently well)  to  wish  he  had  never  set  out  on 
such  a  fool's  errand  at  all. 

That  is  the  reason  why  an  Englishman  who 
wishes  to  become  a  foreigner  for  the  safety  of 
his  own  skin — a  fugitive  from  justice — has  so 
much  more  difficult  a  time  than  a  Continental 
malefactor,  or  an  American.  For  them  there 
are  so  many  obscure  and  unnoticeable  ways  of 
getting  into  another  country  and  being  lost, 
but  the  Englishman  must  resort  to  officials,  and 
then,  having  obtained  a  passport,  he  must  take 
a  ship,  and  while  he  is  doing  this  there  is  time 
for  a  description  of  him  to  be  cabled  in  every 
direction.  Now  the  catch  about  a  ship  is  that 
you  cannot  leave  it  except  by  a  gang-plank  two 
feet  wide.  The  world  is  a  vast  place,  but  it  is 
continually  narrowing  down  to  gang-planks  two 
feet  wide  strctclied  from  decks  to  quays,  with 
detectives  at  the  sliore  end  of  them.  This,  per- 
haps, is  wliy  England  is  so  moral  a  country. 

Returning  to  virtue,  I  would  put  it  on  record, 
from  my  own  experience,  tliat  there  is  a  particu- 

[13.'3] 


Givinp^  and  Receiving 

lar  pleasure  in  being  a  foreigner  in  a  country 
— such  as  America  or  Ireland — where  the  lan- 
guage is  one's  own.     Half  the  joy  of  loitering  in 
France  and   Italy  has  always  been  lost  to  me 
through  inability  to  carry  on  wayside  conversa- 
tions.     I   can  ask  questions  with  any  one,  but 
nobody  so  successfully  fails  to  understand  the 
reply.     But  in  Ireland,  which  is  as  foreign  to  an 
Englishman  as  any  Latin  country,  I  can  talk  all 
day  and  am  delighted  to  do  so.      In  America, 
too,  I  found  myself  able  to  exchange  ideas  with 
quite   a  number   of  its   inhabitants.     Now   and 
then  the  native  idiom  was  too  much  for  me,  but 
for  the  most  part  I   could  both  be  fluent  and 
comprehend    fluency.      I    have    not    found    that 
good    linguists    are    any    cleverer    or    better   in- 
formed than  other  people;  and  yet  on  the  face 
of  it  a  man  who  carries  thirty  living  languages 
in  his  head  should  have  more  that  is  interesting 
to  tell  than  a  man  who  has  conversed  only  with 
his    own    countrymen.     But    the    truth    is    that 
linguistic  ability  is  a  branch  of  the  art  of  mimi- 
cry, and  mimics  can  be  the  dullest  dogs  when 
they  are  not  impersonating  others. 

In  spite  of  my  conversational  ease  I  felt  that 
I  had  failed  utterly — at  any  rate,  with  one 
individual — when  a  New  York  interviewer  said 
of  me  that  I  resembled  a  typical  American  busi- 
ness man.  Not  that  I  have  anything  against 
[134] 


On  Being  a  Foreigner 

the  American  business  man  (whom  I  have  ad- 
miringly watched  being  Napoleonic  in  his  office 
and  sat  with,  when  he  is  tired,  at  some  very 
amusing  burlesques),  nor  have  I  any  poignant 
reluctance  to  look  like  him;  but  I  would  rather 
have  looked  like  myself,  who,  in  too  many  re- 
spects besides  wealth,  am  probably  his  very 
antipodes.  None  the  less  I  would  not  be  so 
idiosyncratic,  so  insular,  as  to  be  continually 
an  object  of  remark,  because  the  art  of  travel, 
on  which  so  many  foreigners  are  principally 
engaged,  is  to  be  more  observing  than  observed. 
The  highest  compliment  that  can  be  paid  to  a 
foreigner  is  to  be  stopped  in  the  street  and' 
asked  the  way  by  a  native.  Let  him  be  con- 
tent with  that;  even  if  he  cannot  answer  the 
question,  he  has  scored  a  point.  But  it  will 
never  happen  to  him  if  he  retains  too  many  of 
his  distinguishing  marks. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  number  of  English- 
men who  resemble  Americans  beyond  ordinary 
optical  detection  is  very  small.  They  may  dress 
the  part  to  perfection,  but  something  will  betray 
them — gait  or  posture  or  features — while  in 
England  most  Americans  reveal  themselves  in- 
stantly as  such.  We  can  pick  out  the  Aus- 
tralians,  too,   in   a  moment. 

It  is  the  boast  of  most  travellers  tliat  they 
are  "citizens  of  the  world,"  but  the  true  citizen 

[135] 


Giving  and  Receiving 

of  the  world  is  very  scarce.  It  is  not  enough  to 
be  able  to  order  a  good  dinner  in  any  language; 
which  is  the  ordinarj'  qualification.  Moreover, 
no  white  man  can  really  be  a  citizen  of  the  dark 
world  or  a  dark  man  a  citizen  of  the  white;  they 
can  at  best  make  their  habitations  there.  Only 
with  the  assistance  of  disguise  can  a  man  be  a 
citizen  of  the  whole  world,  and  even  then  there 
are  countries  that  would  tax  his  ingenuity  too 
far.  Sir  Richard  Burton  could  get  to  Mecca, 
but  could  he  have  persuaded  a  Tokyo  policeman 
that  he  was  a  true-born  Japanese?  The  trans- 
lator of  the  Arabian  Nights  had  recourse  to 
walnut  juice,  or  its  equivalent,  when  he  set  out 
on  his  perilous  pilgrimage,  but  for  ordinary 
purposes  the  best  protective  colouring  for  tra- 
vellers who  do  not  wish  to  be  too  much  gaped 
at  is  a  native  hat.  If  one  always  bought  at 
Calais,  immediately  on  disembarking,  a  hat  two 
sizes  too  small,  one  might  pass  through  France 
without  attracting  a  glance.  Indigenous  clothes 
would  make  things  so  much  easier  that  I  am 
surprised  that  no  enterprising  merchant — prob- 
ably of  Hebraic  origin — has  opened  in  every 
harbour  a  clothing  store  where  the  more  char- 
acteristic apparel  of  the  country  can  be  obtained 
by  the  arriving  voyagers.  It  is  as  reasonable 
as  a  money-changer's  office. 

This    reminds    me   of   my   own    failure   with 
[136] 


On  Being  a  Foreigner 

headgear.  Before  leaving  England  I  had  care- 
fully selected  what  I  imagined  to  be  a  hat  that 
would  pass  unnoticed  in  any  American  street, 
where  the  soft  hat  has  always  been  more  in 
vogue  than,  until  recently,  in  London.  On  ar- 
riving at  San  Francisco,  and  being  continually 
(short  of  the  point  of  surrendering  my  walking- 
stick)  desirous  of  mingling  and  merging  rather 
than  attracting  attention,  I  was  prepared  to  buy 
a  Stetson,  or  whatever  offered,  if  it  seemed  that 
my  own  choice  was  outlandish;  but  I  decided 
that  it  would  serve.  How  wrong  I  was  I 
learned  when  I  came  to  read  a  description  of 
myself  by  Mr.  Holliday,  who,  after  passing  me 
under  examination  in  Chicago,  dwelt  with  al- 
most savage  emphasis  on  the  exotic  peculiarities 
of  my  headgear. 

Of  all  the  cities  that  I  know,  London  is  most 
particular  about  its  hats;  we  adjust  them  in 
mirrors  and  deplore  slovenly  angles ;  and  this 
carefulness  is  an  aid,  by  contrast,  in  detecting 
the  alien  in  our  midst,  who  is  almost  always  less 
self-consciously  roofed.  But  hats,  though  so 
indicative  and  as  evidence  often  so  trustworthy, 
are  not  all.  There  is  tlic  walk.  Why  should  a 
Frenchman  take  a  shorter  step  than  an  English- 
man? Has  tliis  ever  been  explained.''  Jews 
are  said  to  sliuiHc  because  their  ancestors  in  the 
desert  had  to   push  the  sand   aside   with   their 

[187] 


Giving  and  Receiving 

feet.  True  or  not,  the  explanation  is  plausible, 
and  certainly  a  vast  majority  of  Jews,  no  matter 
Avhat  flag  tlicj'  trade  under,  or  how  far  from 
Palestine,  still  walk  in  this  way  and  could  be 
known  by  it  if  the  other  racial  signs  were  in- 
visible. 

The  good  foreigner,  however  we  define  him, 
is  distinguished  by  an  instantaneous  quickening 
of  vision.  At  home  we  take  almost  everything 
but  our  neighbours'  failings  (which  must  be 
narrowly  inquired  into),  fallen  horses,  and  vehi- 
cular collisions,  for  granted ;  but  when  we  travel 
we  are  observing  all  the  while.  This  is  why  it 
is  only  foreigners  and  provincials  who  know 
anything  of  the  treasures  of  art  and  architecture 
that  any  city  possesses.  Have  you  ever  seen  a 
Florentine  in  the  Uffizi.?  or  a  New-Yorker  in 
the  Metropolitan  Museum?  This  may  be  a  too 
extreme  question;  but  I  am  certain  that  no 
one  ever  saw  a  Parisian  in  Sainte  Chapelle,  and 
it  was  not  until  they  heard,  the  other  day,  that 
it  was  about  to  fall  down,  that  any  Londoners 
ever  entered  Westminster  Abbey.  If,  however, 
you  wish  when  in  Paris  to  be  sure  of  hearing 
the  language  of  England  and  America  you  may 
confidentially  seek  the  Louvre. 


[138] 


THE  CYNOSURE 

AMONG  the  passengers  on  the  boat  was  a 
.  tall  dark  man  with  a  black  moustache  and 
well-cut  clothes  who  spent  most  of  his  time  pac- 
ing the  deck  or  reading  alone  in  his  chair. 
Every  ship  has  such  recluses.  Often,  however, 
they  are  on  the  fringe  of  several  sets,  although 
members  of  none,  but  this  man  remained  apart 
and,  being  so  solitary,  was  naturally  the  subject 
of  comment  and  inquiry,  even  more  of  conjec- 
ture. His  name  was  easy  to  discover  from  the 
plan  of  the  tables,  but  we  knew  no  more  until 
little  Mrs.  King,  who  is  the  best  scout  in  the 
world,  brought  the  tidings. 

"I  can't  tell  you  much,"  she  began  breath- 
lessly; "but  there's  something  frightfully  inter- 
esting. Colonel  Swift  knows  all  about  him.  He 
met  him  once  in  Poona  and  they  have  mutual 
friends.  And  how  do  you  think  he  described 
him.''     He  says  he's  the  worst  liver  in  India." 

There  is  no  need  to  describe  the  sensation 
created  by  this  piece  of  information.  H  the 
man  had  set  us  guessing  before,  he  now  excited 
a  frenzy  of  curiosity.  Tlu-  glad  news  traversed 
the  ship  like   wind,  brightening  every   eye;   at 

[139] 


Giving'  and  Receiving 

any  rate  every  female  eye.  For,  thougli  the 
good  may  have  tlieir  reward  elsewhere,  it  is 
beyond  doubt  that,  if  public  interest  is  any  guer- 
don, a  certain  variety  of  the  bad  get  it  on 
earth. 

Show  me  a  really  bad  man — dark-complex- 
ioned, with  well-cut  clothes  and  a  black  mous- 
tache— and  I  will  show  you  a  hero;  a  hero  a 
little  distorted,  it  is  true,  but  not  much  the  less 
heroic  for  that.  Show  me  a  notorious  breaker 
of  male  hearts  and  moral  laws  and — so  long  as 
she  is  still  in  business — I  will  show  you  a  hero- 
ine: again  a  little  distorted,  but  with  more  than 
the  magnetism  of  the  virtuous  variety. 

For  the  rest  of  the  voyage  the  lonely  passen- 
ger was  lonely  only  because  he  preferred  to  be, 
or  was  unaware  of  the  agitation  which  he 
caused.  People  walked  for  hours  longer  than 
they  liked  or  even  intended,  in  order  to  have  a 
chance  of  passing  him  in  his  chair  and  scrutiniz- 
ing again  the  features  that  masked  such  deprav- 
ity. For  that  they  masked  it  cannot  be  denied. 
A  physiognomist  looking  at  him  would  have 
conceded  a  certain  gloom,  a  trend  towards  intro- 
spection, possibly  a  hypertrophied  love  of  self, 
but  no  more.  Physiognomists,  however,  can 
retire  from  the  case,  for  they  are  as  often 
wrong  as  handwriting  experts.  And  if  any 
Lavater  had  been  on  board  and  had  advanced 
[140] 


The  Cynosure 

such  a  theory  he  would  have  been  as  unpopular 
as  Jonah,  for  the  man's  wickedness  was  not 
only  a  joy  to  us  but  a  support.  Without  it  the 
voyage  would  have  been  intolerable. 

What,  we  all  wondered,  had  he  done?  Had 
he  murdered,  as  well  as  destroyed  happy  homes  ? 
Was  he  crooked  at  cards?  Our  minds  became 
acutely  active,  but  we  could  discover  no  more 
because  the  old  Colonel,  the  source  of  knowl- 
edge, had  fallen  ill  and  was  confined  to  his 
berth. 

Meanwhile  the  screw  revolved,  sweepstakes 
were  lost  and  won,  deck  sports  flourished,  fancy- 
dress  dances  were  held,  concerts  were  endured,  a 
Colonial  Bishop  addressed  us  on  Sunday  morn- 
ings, and  all  the  time  the  tall  dark  man  with 
the  sallow  complexion  and  the  black  moustache 
and  different  suits  of  well-cut  clothes  sat  in  his 
chair  and  passed  serenely  from  one  Oppenheira 
to  another  as  though  no  living  person  were 
within  leagues. 

It  was  not  until  we  were  actually  in  port  that 
the  Colonel  recovered  and  I  came  into  touch 
with  him.  Standing  by  the  rail  we  took  advan- 
tage of  the  liberty  to  speak  together  which  on  a 
ship  such  propinquity  sanctions.  After  we  had 
exchanged  a  ftw  remarks  aliout  the  clumsiness 
of  the  disembarking  arrangements,  I  referred 
to  the  man  of  mystery  and  turpitude,  and  asked 

[141] 


Giving  and  Receiving 

for  particulars  of  some  of  his  milder  offences. 

"Why  do  you  suppose  him  such  a  black- 
guard?" he  asked. 

"But  surely "  I  began,  a  little  discon- 
certed. 

"He's  a  man,"  the  Colonel  continued,  "that 
every  one  should  be  sorry  for.  He's  a  wreck, 
and  he's  going  home  now  probably  to  receive 
his  death  sentence." 

This  was  a  promising  phrase  and  I  cheered 
up  a  little,  but  only  for  a  moment. 

"That  poor  devil,"  said  the  Colonel,  "as  I 
told  Mrs.  King  earlier  in  the  voyage,  has  the 
worst  liver  in  India." 


[142] 


THOUGHTS  ON  THEFT 

WE  must  all,  at  times,  have  wished  to 
follow  a  famous  example  and,  lighting 
the  candle,  examine  the  other  fellow's  bumps; 
for  "How,"  we  despairingly  cry,  "can  it  be  pos- 
sible for  a  human  being  to  behave  like  that? 
What  kind  of  skull  can  he  possess,  to  be  so 
absurd?" — the  detection  of  absurdity  in  others 
being  one  of  life's  most  constant  alleviations. 
But  perhaps  what  really  incites  us  to  reach  for 
the  candlestick  is  not  so  much  the  absurdity  of 
others  as  their  difference  from  ourselves.  "I 
flatter  myself,"  we  say,  "I  can  understand  most 
points  of  view,  even  though  I  don't  agree  with 
them ;  but  the  way  So-and-so  goes  on  absolutely 
beats  me."     How  often  has  one  lieard  that! 

At  the  moment,  any  researches  of  my  own 
into  cranial  protuberance  or  concavity  would 
be  confined  to  the  head  of  the  individual  who 
stole  my  door-mat.  I  had  moved  into  a  new 
flat  and  provided  myself  with  a  door-mat  of 
some  excellence,  which,  with  a  want  of  suspicion 
that  may  strike  you  as  chiklish  but  is  an  essen- 
tial ingredient  of  my  character,  I  placed  outside 
instead  of  inside  the  door.      It  remained   there 

[143] 


Giving  and  Receiving 

considcrabl}'  less  than  an  hour.  Indeed,  it 
must  liave  been  removed  ahnost  as  soon  as  it 
was  laid  down. 

A  neighbouring  policeman,  to  whom  I  resorted 
more  for  comfort  than  for  vengeance,  gave  me 
no  sympathy.  "I  can  report  it,"  he  said;  "but 
what's  the  use?  This  is  a  terrible  neighbour- 
hood for  sneak  thieves." 

What  I  want  is  to  know  more  about  the 
sneak-thief  in  question.  Not  for  purposes  of 
prosecution,  in  the  least,  but  to  satisfy  curiosity. 
I  want  to  know  how  he  views  life.  Is  he  aware 
that  he  is  an  enemy  of  society,  or  does  he  pur- 
loin instinctively  and  without  thought.''  Does 
he  know  that  he  is  a  traitor  to  the  human 
family,  or  has  he  drugged  his  conscience  with 
sophistries.''  Have  the  Commandments  no 
meaning  for  him  whatever?  Has  he  no  fear  of 
hell  fire?  And  how  does  he  feel  about  me, 
destitute  of  the  new  property  to  which  I  was 
entitled  by  purchase?  Or  does  he  guess  that  I 
stole  it  too?  Does  he  think  about  the  owners 
of  his  booty  at  all,  or  are  all  his  thoughts 
directed  to  realizing  the  proceeds  and  evading 
capture  ? 

And  this  brings  me  to  a  more  personal  ques- 
tion: Had  I  seen  him  carrying  the  door-mat  off, 
what  should  I  have  done?     The  answer  is  easy: 
I  should  have  done  nothing.     Whatever  else  out 
[144] 


Thoughts  on  Theft 

of  my  natural  line  I  might  be  led  in  a  moment 
of  excitement  to  do,  no  provocation  would  cause 
me  to  run  down  Sloane  Street  after  a  retreating 
door-mat,  crying  "Stop  thief !"  But  if,  by 
any  freakish  chance,  I  had  pursued,  it  would 
have  been  less  to  regain  the  door-mat  than  to 
learn  more  of  what  the  Americans  call  the 
"mentality"  of  the  bandit.  In  short,  to  ex- 
amine his  bumps. 

To  thieve  does  not  happen  to  be  one  of  the 
temptations  that  beset  me — there  are  plenty 
left  without  it — and  therefore  when  I  came  to 
examine  this  fellow's  bumps  I  should  probably 
find  a  disparity  between  his  head  and  my  own  in 
the  region  of  acquisitiveness;  but  otherwise  we 
might  be  exactly  similar.  For  the  odd  thing — 
and  the  sinister  thing — is  that  people  who  steal 
are  so  very  like  the  people  who  don't,  are  so 
very  nearly  normal.  Or  can  it  be  that  it  is 
really  they  who  are  normal  and  we  who  are 
not? 

I  can  understand  that  in  the  early  days  the 
transition  from  the  state  when  all  things  were 
free,  to  the  state  when  rights  of  property  came 
in,  must  have  been  so  gradual  as  to  be  almost 
impercf j)tiblc,  so  tliat  no  one  failing  to  notice 
the  change  ouglit  to  he  considered  as  very 
wicked.  Adam  and  Eve,  of  course,  took  wliere 
they    would.     Abel    and    Cain    and    Seth    took 

[145] 


Giving  and  Receiving 

where  they  would,  and  so  for  a  while  did  their 
m^'steriously  engendered  descendants.  But 
then,  one  day,  one  of  them,  taking,  as  usual 
and  without  thought,  where  he  would,  was 
pulled  up  very  short  by  a  commanding  voice 
bidding  him  drop  it.  "Don't  j'^ou  know  this  is 
my  land  and  everything  on  it  is  mine?"  the 
voice  said;  and  at  that  moment  theft  was  born; 
and  it  was  so  little  different  from  the  natural 
processes  of  the  moment  immediately  preceding 
that  no  wonder  there  was  born  at  the  same  time 
a  confusion  so  complete  that  it  still  exists. 

And  the  law's  attitude  to  theft  has  become 
so  perplexingly  lenient  too.  The  other  day,  for 
instance,  a  Harley  Street  physician  attended  at 
a  police  court  to  ask  that  the  two  boys  who 
had  recently  abstracted  his  rug  from  his  car, 
while  he  was  visiting  a  patient,  should  merely 
be  caned  and  warned,  and  not  punished  further. 
But  when  he  had  preferred  his  request,  he  was 
told  by  the  magistrate  that  it  was  he  who  was 
really  to  blame,  by  leaving  his  car  unprotected ! 
In  other  words,  it  is  not  those  who  thieve  who 
are  reprehensible,  but  those  who  do  not  guard 
their  property. 

Providence    in   its   infinite   wisdom   does   now 
and  then  make   it  awkward   for  the   primitive- 
minded  !     To    give    mankind    empty    stomachs 
[146] 


Thoughts  on  Theft 

and  two  hands,  and  also  ownership  rights  and 
lawyers,  is  to  ask  for  trouble. 

Meanwhile,  what  are  we  to  do  about  theft? 
Because,  even  if  it  is  understandable,  it  is  no 
less  a  treachery  to  civilisation;  and  there  is 
little  doubt  that  it  is  on  the  increase.  I  read 
the  other  day  some  statistics  which  were  appall- 
ing, and  which  included  a  new  social  danger 
consisting  of  ten  thousand  motor-car  thieves. 
Personally  I  would  as  soon  steal  a  railway  train 
as  a  motor-car,  having  no  wish  to  own  either 
or  to  do  anything  with  them  but  make  use  of 
them  and  quickly  leave  them;  but  tastes  differ. 
My  own  enterprise  in  peculation  would  be  con- 
fined to  pictures:  Number  3211,  for  instance,  in 
the  National  Gallery.  But  there  is  always 
some  fellow  looking.  .  .  . 

Various  reasons  for  the  growth  of  stealing 
have  been  put  forward.  The  movies,  of  course: 
such  a  film  as  "Alias  Jimmy  Valentine,"  where 
an  attractive  scamp,  after  an  exciting  career  as 
a  burglar,  is  called  upon,  while  "making  good," 
to  employ  his  skill  at  safe-breaking  to  rescue  a 
child  hx-ked  inside,  so  that  he  becomes  a  hero  as 
well  as  a  reformed  character.  I  saw  this  a 
few  weeks  ago,  and  can  quite  understand  how 
it  might  stimulate  the  youlliful  breast.  And 
then  there  is  "Raffles."     And  the  War,  of  course, 

[147] 


Giving  and  Receiving 

is  largely  blamed.  If  officers  and  gentlemen 
winked  at  the  batmen  who,  during  hostilities, 
set  plump  ehickcns  on  the  table  every  evening, 
how  are  those  batmen,  now  at  home  again,  to 
tliink  too  seriously  of  the  distinctions  between 
meurn  and  tititm  when  they  want  something  for 
themselves?  A  door-mat,  for  example.  In 
war  many  of  the  safeguards  of  society  go; 
honesty  very  early.  Necessity  knows  no  law. 
Our  future  mood,  I  suppose,  should  be  one  of 
eternal  gratitude  that  we  never  invaded  the 
enemy's  country,  because,  if  we  had,  the  loot 
habit  might  by  now  be  so  widely  spread  that 
nothing  would  be  safe. 

But  it  is  not  impossible  that  the  War's  con- 
tribution to  the  increase  of  theft  was  its  ten- 
dency to  make  us  all  more  natural.  That  is  a 
disturbing  thought,  if  you  like. 


[148] 


HONOURS  EASY 


NOT  very  long  ago  the  following  advertise- 
ments  appeared   in   the   same   column   of 
The  Southshire  Daily  Gazette: 

"Lost,  a  pure  black  Pekinese  clog,  wearing  a  silver 
badge  marked  'Cherub.'  Handsome  reward  offered. 
F.  B.,  Grand  Hotel,  Brightbourne." 

"Found,  a  black  Pekinese,  wearing  a  silver  badge 
marked  'Cherub.'  No  reward  required.  The  Limes, 
Cheviot  Road,  Brightbourne." 


II 

On  the  same  morning  the  paper  was  opened 
and  scanned  almost  .simultaneously  by  Mrs. 
Frederick  Bathurst  in  the  sitting-room  which 
sJie  and  her  husband  occupied  at  the  Grand 
Hotel,  and  by  Mr.  Hartley  Friend  in  the  morn- 
ing room  at  "Tlie  Limes." 

"Oh,  Fred,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Bathurst, 
"Cherub  has  been  found.  He's  all  safe  at  a 
house  called  'The  Limes,'  in  Cheviot  Road. 
Isn't  that  splendid.''" 

[149] 


Giviiif]^  and  Receivin^i? 

"Very  good  news,"  said  her  husband.  "I 
told  you  not  to  -worry." 

"It's  a  direct  ansM'er  to  prayer/'  said  Mrs. 
Bathurst.     "But " 

"But  what?"  her  husband  inquired. 

"But  I  do  wish  you  had  taken  my  advice 
not  to  offer  any  reward.  You  might  so  easily 
have  left  it  open.  People  aren't  so  mercenary 
as  all  that.  It  stands  to  reason  that  any  one 
staying  at  an  hotel  like  this  and  bringing  a  dog 
with  them — always  an  expensive  thing  to  do — 
and  valuing  it  enough  to  advertise  its  loss, 
would  behave  properly  when  the  time  came." 

"I  don't  know,"  Mr.  Bathurst  replied.  "Does 
anything  stand  to  reason.^  The  ordinary  dog 
thief,  holding  up  an  animal  to  ransom,  might  be 
deterred  from  returning  it  if  no  mention  of 
money  was  made.  You  remember  we  decided  on 
that." 

"Oh,  no,  I  don't  think  so.  You  merely  had 
your  own  way  again;  that  was  all.  I  was 
always  against  offering  a  reward.  And  the 
word  'handsome'  too.  So  reckless !  In  any  case 
I  never  agreed  to  that.  You  put  that  in  later. 
Another  thing,"  Mrs.  Bathurst  continued,  "I 
knew  it  in  some  curious  way — in  my  bones,  as 
they  say — that  the  fineness  of  Cherub's  nature, 
its  innocence,  its  radiant  friendliness,  would 
overcome  any  sordidness  in  the  person  who 
[150] 


Honours  Easy 

found  him,  poor  darling,  all  lost  and  unhappy. 
No  one  who  has  been  much  with  that  simple 
sweet  character  could  fail  to  be  the  better 
for  it." 

Mr.   Bathurst  coughed. 

"Don't  you  agree.''"  his  wife  asked. 

"Well."  said  Mr.  Bathurst,  after  helping 
himself  to  another  egg,  "let  us  hope  so,  at  any 
rate." 

"It's  gone  beyond  mere  hope,"  said  his  wife 
triumphantly.  "Listen  to  this";  and  she  read 
out  the  sentence  from  the  second  advertisement, 
"  'No  reward  required.'  There,"  she  added, 
"isn't  that  proof .^  I'll  go  round  to  Cheviot 
Road  directly  after  breakfast  and  say  how  grate- 
ful we  are,  and  bring  the  darling  back." 


Ill 


Meanwhile  at  "The  I.imcs"  Mr.  Hartley 
Friend  was  pacing  the  room  with  impatient 
steps. 

"I  do  wish  you  would  try  to  be  less  impul- 
sive," he  was  saying  to  his  wife.  "Anything 
in  the  nature  of  business  you  would  be  so 
much  wiser  to  leave  to  me." 

"What  is  it  now.-*"  Mrs.  Friend  asked  with 
perfect  j)lacidity. 

"This  dog,"  said  lier  liusbaiid,  "that   fastcnid 

[151] 


Giving  and  Receiving 

itself  on  you  in  this  deplorable  way — whatever 
possessed  you  to  rush  into  print  about  it?" 

"Of  course  I  rushed,  as  you  say.  Think  of 
the  feelings  of  the  poor  woman  who  has  lost 
her  pet.     It  was  the  only  kind  thing  to  do." 

"  'Poor  woman'  indeed !  I  assure  you  she's 
nothing  of  the  sort.  One  would  think  you  were 
a  millionaire  to  be  ladling  out  benefactions  like 
this.  'No  reward  required.'  Fancy  not  even 
asking  for  the  price  of  the  advertisement  to  be 
refunded!" 

"But  that  would  have  been  so  squalid." 

"  'Squalid !'  I've  no  patience  with  you. 
Justice  isn't  squalor.  It's — it's  justice.  As 
for  your  'poor  woman/  listen  to  this."  And  he 
read  out  the  Bathurst  advertisement  with  ter- 
rible emphasis  on  the  words  "Handsome  reward 
offered."     "Do  you  hear  that — 'handsome'?" 

"Yes,  I  hear,"  said  his  wife  amiably;  "but 
that  isn't  my  idea  of  making  money." 

"I  hope  you  don't  suppose  it's  mine,"  said  her 
husband.  "But  there  is  such  a  thing  as  common 
sense.  Why  on  earth  the  accident  of  this  little 
brute  following  us  home  should  run  us  into  the 
expense  of  an  advertisement  and  a  certain 
amount  of  food  and  drink  I'm  hanged  if  I  can 
see." 

"Well,   dear,"   said   his   wife   with  the   same 
[152] 


Honours  Easy 

amiability,  "if  you   can't  see  it  I   can't  make 
you." 

IV 

A  few  minutes  later  the  arrival  of  "a  lady 
who's  come  for  the  Peek"  was  announced  by 
"The  Limes"  parlourmaid. 

"No,"  said  Mr.  Friend  as  his  wife  rose, 
"leave  it  to  me.  I'll  deal  with  it.  The  situa- 
tion is  very  delicate." 

"How  can  I  thank  you  enough,"  began  Mrs. 
Bathurst,  "for  being  so  kind  and  generous  about 
our  little  angel?  My  husband  and  I  agreed 
that  nothing  more  charmingly  considerate  can 
ever  have  been  done." 

At  this  point  Mrs.  Friend  followed  her  hus- 
band into  the  room,  and  Mrs.  Bathurst  renewed 
her  expressions  of  gratitude. 

"But  at  any  rate,"  she  added  to  her,  "you 
will  permit  me  to  defray  the  cost  of  the  adver- 
tisement? I  could  not  allow  you  to  be  at  that 
expense." 

Before  Mrs.  Friend  could  speak  her  husband 
intervened.  "No,  madam,"  he  said,  "I  couldn't 
think  of  it.  Please  don't  let  the  mention  of 
money  vulgarize  a  little  friendly  act  like  this. 
We  are  only  too  glad  to  Ijave  been  the  means  of 
reuniting  you  and  your  pet." 

[153] 


TEMPTATION 

TEMPTATION  is  a  theme  on  which,  in 
mixed  company,  people  are  only  partially 
candid;  but  one  can  extract  some  amusing  con- 
fidences none  the  less. 

"My  greatest  temptation,"  said  a  pretty  lady, 
"occurred  last  M^inter.  I  was  on  the  Riviera, 
staying  in  an  hotel  that  I  did  not  much  fancy 
and  spending  far  too  much  time  in  wondering 
why  I  had  ever  come  away  from  an  honest  cold 
climate  in  order  to  be  mocked  by  the  ghost  of 
sunshine.     You  know  the  feeling." 

Every  one  seemed  to  know  it. 

"Well,  one  evening,  after  I  had  been  there  a 
few  days,  some  friends  arrived  at  their  villa  near 
by  and  I  was  asked  to  dine  there.  I  had  bought 
a  model  or  two  in  Paris  on  the  way  down,  and 
I  dressed  with  a  good  deal  of  pleasure  and  an- 
ticipation of  a  little  fun  at  last.  But  all  that 
feeling  evaporated  when  I  came  to  put  on  my 
rings.  I  had  some  special  ones  for  such  occa- 
sions, and  I  told  my  maid — she  was  a  recent 
acquisition — I  would  wear  those. 

"She  laid  out  two  or  three. 
[I5i] 


Temptation 

"  'No/  I  said,  'not  those — the  emerald  and 
the  ruby.' 

"  'But  these  are  all,'  she  said. 

"  'All !'  I  cried.  'What  can  you  mean  ? 
Aren't  the  emerald  and  the  ruby  there.''  And 
the  diamond  hoop?' 

"There  was  no  sign  of  them ! 

"I  was  stupefied.  Sooner  or  later,  I  suppose, 
every  one  is  robbed;  it  is  a  rule  of  life;  but  it 
had  never  before  happened  to  me. 

"I  was  insured  right  enough,  but  the  rings 
were  very  precious  to  me.     I  hated  to  lose  them. 

"We  searched  the  jewel-case  through  and 
through,  looked  in  every  likely  and  unlikely 
place,  and  then  I  sent  for  the  manager. 

"He  was  polite;  he  would  make  inquiries; 
but  he  could  not  believe  that  the  theft  had  been 
committed  under  his  roof.  Was  I  sure  I  had 
brought  them  with  me?  Ladies  sometimes 
made  mistakes. 

"Yes,  I  was  sure. 

"Had  I  no  suspicions? — this  with  a  glance  at 
the  maid. 

"I  was  confident  that  the  theft  was  by  a 
stranger. 

"Very  well,  liut  there  was  a  rule  as  to  en- 
trusting jewels  at  the  ofiice  safe.  However,  he 
would  do  what  he  could.  If  I  would  give  par- 
ticulars he  would  tell  the  police. 

[155] 


Givinp^  and  Receiving 

"So  I  wrote  out  a  minute  description  of  each 
missing  ring,  and  went  off  to  dinner  feeling 
utterly  wretched  and  forlorn. 

"The  next  day  I  saw  police  officials  endlessly, 
and  my  poor  maid  was  examined  and  cross- 
examined  by  them,  and  I  was  conscious  that 
every  servant  in  the  place  viewed  me  with  dis- 
like, for  I  had  made  them  all  suspect. 

"But  nothing  resulted.  There  was  no  trace 
of  the  thieves,  and  I  hurried  back  to  London  to 
tell  the  insurance  people  and  leave  the  rest  to 
them. 

"More  interviews  followed,  and  I  must  say 
that  next  to  the  pets  at  Scotland  Yard  who  give 
you  back  your  umbrella,  insurance  people  are 
the  dearest  creatures  in  the  world.  In  course 
of  time  I  received  a  cheque  in  compensation 
and  the  matter  was  closed." 

She  stopped. 

"But  where  was  the  temptation?"  some  one 
asked. 

"I'm  coming  to  that,"  she  said.  "I  received 
the  cheque  by  an  evening  post,  and  the  next  day 
I  went  down  to  the  bank  to  pay  it  in  in  person, 
and,  having  done  so,  I  asked  for  a  box  of  valu- 
ables that  I  keep  there." 

The  pretty  lady  paused  again. 

"Well?"  we  all  asked. 

"Well,"  she  said,  "they  brought  me  the  box  to 
[156] 


Temptation 

the  waiting-room,  and  the  first  thing  I  saw  when 
I  opened  it  was  one  of  the  lost  rings,  and  there, 
underneath,  were  the  others." 

"Good  Heavens !"  some  one  said. 

"Yes,  there  they  were,  I  had  carefully  de- 
posited them  there  before  I  went  away  and  now 
for  the  first  time  remembered  it.  How  one's 
memory  could  play  one  such  a  trick  is  a  mystery, 
but  that  seems  to  be  what  memories  are  for — to 
let  one  down. 

"You  see  the  temptation  now,"  she  resumed. 
"All  the  -way  home  I  had  it  before  me.  No  one 
but  I  knew  about  the  rings ;  the  insurance  people 
need  never  discover;  if  I  liked  to  be  dishonest  I 
could  have  the  rings  and  the  money  too." 

She  stopped  altogether. 

"By  Jove,  yes !"  some  one  said,  and  a  great 
silence  prevailed. 

There  is  a  silly  ass  at  most  parties  of  any 
size,  and  wc  had  ours,  and  he  rushed  in,  as 
usual,  wlierc  angels  had  too  much  taste  to  tread. 

"And  what  did  you  do.''"  he  asked  eagerly. 


[157] 


THE  WARDROBE 

ONCE  upon  a  time  there  was  a  wardrobe  in 
which  a  man's  clothes  were  kept,  the  coats 
and  waistcoats  hanging  over  wooden  holders  and 
the  trousers  from  clips.  It  was  large  enough 
for  all  his  various  suits,  morning  and  evening; 
and  they  were  all  on  fairly  good  terms  with  each 
other,  even  if  the  Harris  tweeds  were  a  little 
clannish  and  the  frock-coat  a  little  superior. 
This  was  because  the  frock-coat  had  been  to  a 
garden-party  at  Buckingham  Palace;  for  the 
owner  of  the  clothes,  you  must  know,  was  what 
is  called  a  man  about  town,  who  had  time  and 
opportunity  to  do  the  correct  thing. 

The  oldest  suit  in  the  wardrobe  was  one  of  the 
Harris  tweeds.  It  had  been  there  for  fifteen 
years  and  was  still  worn  on  holidays.  It  knew 
all,  from  the  "Station  Master's  Garden"  at  St. 
Andrews,  to  the  little  cemetery  at  the  foot  of 
the  Mullion  links.  Its  age  and  its  Scottish 
sagacity  made  it  the  natural  head  of  the  com- 
pany, and  its  advice  was  often  asked,  but,  owing 
to  the  difficulty  of  following  its  Highland  accent, 
was  taken  only  by  chance. 

It  was  an  exciting  moment  for  the  clothes 
every  morning  when  their  master's  valet  opened 
[158] 


The  Wardrobe 

the  door  and  took  out  a  pair  of  trousers.  He 
always  took  the  trousers  first  and  the  coat  and 
waistcoat  a  few  minutes  later;  but  the  choice 
of  the  trousers  told  what  the  coat  and  waistcoat 
would  be.  In  the  few  minutes  there  was  no 
end  of  chatter. 

"Hullo!  it's  golf  to-day,"  the  others  would 
say,  as  the  knickerbockers  disappeared.  Or  "A 
luncheon-party,  I  think,"  if  it  were  one  of  the 
pair  of  trousers  worn  with  the  frock-coat. 

"I  hope  there'll  be  some  nice  dresses  to  talk 
to,"  the  frock-coat  would  say  if  it  was  his  turn. 
Sometimes  the  waistcoat  would  be  left  behind, 
and  then  they  would  know  it  was  a  wedding  or 
other  festival  and  one  of  the  white  waistcoats 
from  a  drawer  would  be  needed. 

"I  don't  care  mucli  for  weddings,"  said  the 
frock-coat.  "Although  there's  always  a  lot  of 
company,  it's  usually  too  new  to  be  interesting, 
straight  from  the  tailor's  and  the  dressmaker's. 
But  wliat  I  most  resent  is  the  confetti." 

"Ay,  mon,"  the  Harris  tweeds  replied,  "that's 
wluTf  we  hae  the  advantage  over  ye.  Rain, 
snow,  hail,  confetti,  rice — it's  all  one  tae  us. 
We're  the  only  sensible  practical  suitings  aniang 
ye.  But  it  must  be  awfu',  seeing  the  guid 
wholesome  rice  being  wasted." 

"Economy!  what  a  boring  theme!"  a  fancy 
waistcoat   remarked. 

[159] 


Giving  and  Receiving 

It  was  also  always  an  exciting  moment  when 
a  new  suit  was  luing  in  the  wardrobe,  because 
the  new  clothes  brought  tidings  of  the  tailor's — 
the  old  homestead,  so  to  speak — and  there  were 
countless  questions  as  to  who  had  cut  it,  who  had 
stitched  it,  what  changes  there  were  in  the  staff, 
and  so  on. 

In  the  evening,  when  their  master  came  back, 
the  excitement  was  confined  to  the  dress-suit  and 
the  dinner-suit — which  would  it  be?  Would 
there  be  beautiful  dresses  and  therefore  the  long 
tails  and  a  white  waistcoat,  or  just  men  only  and 
a  short  jacket?  Not  that  other  men's  clothes 
are  so  dull:  dinner-jacket  can  have  a  vast  deal 
of  gossip  to  retail  to  dinner-jacket;  but  full  fig 
is  more  amusing.  You  see,  some  of  the  new 
gowns  have  delicious  Parisian  scandal  to  unfold, 
and  even  the  less  discreet  can  be  counted  upon 
for  revelations  of  their  wearers.  It  was  well 
to  keep  in  with  daddy  long-tails,  as  he  was 
called,  if  you  wanted  to  have  these  stories  re- 
peated to  you. 

As  the  week  wore  on  another  excitement  de- 
veloped, for  the  great  question  which  then  began 
to  exercise  the  clothes  was — "Is  he  going  away 
from  Saturday  to  Monday,  or  not?  And,  if  so, 
what  will  he  take?"  The  actual  packing  they 
did  not  like  at  all:  being  jammed  together  in  a 
bag  is  no  joke;  but  it  was  all  right  when  they 
[160] 


The  Wardrobe 

were  unpacked  amid  the  new  surroundings.  It 
was  interesting  too  to  see  what  kind  of  valets  or 
maids  there  were,  and  if  they  were  rougher 
with  the  brush  than  their  own  James  was,  or 
more  gentle.  James  had  a  savage  way  of  casti- 
gating them. 

But  when  I  say  that  all  the  clothes  were  agi- 
tated by  this  week-end  problem  I  am  wrong. 
There  were,  of  course,  those  that  were  out  of 
season — they  knew  that  their  time  could  not 
come  again  just  yet — and  there  was  the  pair 
of  black  trousers  at  the  back,  which  could  never 
go  out  unless  some  one  had  died.  They  were 
very  seldom  wanted,  although  the  door  never 
opened  without  giving  them  a  little  shock;  but 
once — it  was  during  a  bad  influenza  epidemic — 
the  black  pair  had  been  out  three  times  in  a  fort- 
night.     How  they  talked  about  it! 

And  then  one  day  the  man  himself  died,  al- 
though the  clothes  did  not  know  for  quite  a 
long  while  that  this  liad  happened.  He  liad 
often  been  ill  before  and  had  not  needed  them, 
and  this  might  be  the  case  now.  Tliey  won- 
dered exceedingly  what  was  going  on,  but  James 
never  came  near,  and  so  there  was  no  chance 
of  discovering  by  asking  his  coat.  Ordinarily 
they  liked  it  wlicii  James  (and  his  brush) 
stayed  away,   but  not  tills   time. 

It  is  a  terrible  day  for  wardrobes  when  their 

[KilJ 


Giving  and  Receiving 

owners  die  and  they  fall  into  the  hands  of  the 
people  wlio  buy  such  things.  I  say  "buy,"  but 
that  is  a  slip:  ladies'  and  gentlemen's  wardrobes 
are  not  "bought,"  as  any  advertisement  column 
will  tell  you:  they  are  "purchased."  These 
clothes  were  the  perquisites  of  James,  who,  be- 
ing a  little  brisk  fattish  man,  entirely  the  wrong 
shape,  had  no  personal  use  for  any  of  them,  and 
so  he  transferred  the  whole  lot  to  a  dealer. 

It  was  then  that  their  agonies  set  in.  They 
were  marked  at  prices  disgracefully  below  their 
cost ;  they  were  handled  and  tried  on ;  they  were 
depreciated  by  intending  purchasers  and  ex- 
tolled without  any  truth  at  all  by  the  dealer, 
who  said  that  they  had  been  the  property  of  a 
Duke  who  was  moving  to  the  tropics ;  they  were 
bargained  over  and  at  last  sold.  And  that  was 
not  the  worst,  for  many  of  them  were  altered — 
and  oh,  how  clothes  hate  that !  In  every  case 
there  was  a  distressing  social  fall. 

Only  the  Harris  tweeds  were  happy.  They 
did  not  care  who  wore  them  so  long  as  they 
were  worn  and  were  out  in  the  open  air  again. 


[162] 


REUNION 

ONCE  upon  a  time  there  was  a  man  who 
spent  far  too  much  time  in  Beauchamp 
Place  and  kindred  haunts,  looking  for  odds  and 
ends ;  by  which  he  meant  all  kinds  of  articles 
which  our  ancestors  had  real  use  for,  but  which 
we  merely  hang  up  on  the  walls  or  set  on  the 
mantelpiece:  dishes,  plates,  cups  and  saucers, 
glasses,  finger-bowls,  pistols,  trivets,  paper- 
weights, pestles  and  mortars,  apothecaries'  jars, 
even  skewers  and  punch-ladles.  Such  things 
filled  his  rooms,  but,  although  the  rooms  were 
full  to  congestion,  their  owner  was  continually 
bringing  in  something  new,  and  it  was  always 
"decorative"  or  "quaint,"  to  use  his  favourite 
words,  and  sometimes  both,  but  too  often  only 
quaint. 

They  had  been  changing  hands  for  a  century 
and  more  and  would  certainly  continue  to  do  so ; 
the  metal  ware  witliout  any  doubt  at  all,  and  the 
crockery  and  porcelain  possibly  if  not  probably. 
Oh,  how  old  crockery  and  porcelain  shudders 
and  scjiiiniis  when  liglit-ln  arlid  maid-servants, 
with  their  thoughts  on  other  things,  chiefly  their 
evening  out,  lift  them  and  begin  to  dust!     You 

[1G3J 


Givin/?  and  Receiving 

have  no  idea.  But  the  pistols  and  the  swords, 
the  ancient  fire-irons  and  brass  receptacles — 
they  are  apathetic. 

When  midnight  came  and  their  tongues  were 
loosened  (vide  Hans  Christian  Andersen  and 
otlicr  authorities)  you  cannot  conceive  what  a 
babel  there  was.  The  man  bought  so  much  that 
the  life  of  his  odds  and  ends  was  really  quite 
exciting,  with  constant  newcomers  to  listen  to: 
exciting,  that  is,  for  all  but  those  who  wanted 
to  do  all  the  talking  and  resented  competition. 

"Where  did  you  come  from?"  was  the  first 
question   always   put   to  the   latest  arrival. 

And  then:  "What  did  you  cost?" 

"I  came  from  'The  Merchant  Adventurers/  " 
said,  one  night,  a  Bristol  blue  decanter. 

"How  much  were  you?" 

"I  was  thirty-five  shillings,"  it  answered  with 
very  perceptible  pride.  "I've  been  going  up 
steadily  for  years.  Do  you  know,  when  I  first 
left  home — I  was  in  a  cottage  in  Gloucester- 
shire, near  Stanway — I  was  only  half-a-crown. 
A  dealer  who  pretended  he  was  a  cyclist  in  need 
of  tea  bought  me.  And  then  I  was  in  a  shop 
in  Cheltenham,  where  I  fetched  half-a-sovereign. 
Another  dealer  from  London  bought  me,  and  I 
went  to  a  shop  in  Bloomsbury,  where  I  was  a 
pound,  and  then  I  travelled  westwards  and  went 
up  to  thirty-five  shillings.  Isn't  it  wonderful?" 
[164] 


Reunion 

But  it  isn't  with  any  cheerful  blue  glass 
decanter  that  this  history  is  concerned,  but  with 
a  certain  morose  warming-pan. 

You  must  understand  that  all  the  odds  and 
ends  so  decorative  and  quaint  that  litter  the 
rooms  of  these  curio-hunters  nourish  a  griev- 
ance. And  that  grievance  is  that  they  are 
always  idle.  They  hate  being  just  ornamental; 
they  want  to  be  at  their  own  jobs  again.  It 
never  occurred  to  the  man  that  there  could  be 
any  discontent  among  liis  rarities,  but  if  he  had 
had  sharper  ears  or  more  imagination  he  would 
have  known  that  they  were  all  spoiling  for  work 
once  more.  Dishes  and  plates  like  to  be  eaten 
from;  cups  like  to  contain  hot  tea;  paper- 
weights prefer  to  be  holding  down  paper;  pis- 
tols are  miserable  unless  they  now  and  then  go 
off;  and  punch-ladles  consider  every  moment 
lost  that  is  not  spent  in  ladling  punch. 

But  of  all  the  unemployed  articles  in  the 
room,  that  which  most  resented  its  foolish  lazy 
life  was  the  warming-pan.  There  it  hung  on 
the  wall  for  ever,  with  no  fire  in  its  great  copper 
receptacle,  no  bustling  liousewife  to  grip  its 
handle  and  thrust  it  about  between  the  sheets, 
not  even  a  bed  in  sight;  its  sole  occupation  was 
to  be  decorative  and  (juaint. 

"Of  all  the  rot!"  it  used  to  say. 

[165] 


Giviiifi'  and  Receiving 

"Bed-wanncrs  should  warm  beds,"  it  would 
mutter. 

"Hanging  on  a  drawing-room  wall  doing  noth- 
ing," it  would  grumble  with  profundities  of 
scorn. 

The  worst  of  it  was  that  this  forced  sloth  had 
impaired  its  temper,  and  it  consorted  with  none 
of  the  others. 

"Not  a  soul  I  care  to  waste  my  words  on,"  it 
would  complain. 

And  then  one  day  the  man  led  triumphantly 
into  the  room  two  workmen,  one  carrying  a  pole 
and  the  other  an  electric  lamp,  and  after  much 
hindering  from  the  man  (who  was  a  fuss-bud- 
get), the  lamp  was  at  length  firmly  established 
on  the  pole  and  connected  with  a  switch. 

"Splendid !"  said  the  man,  and  he  tipped  each 
of  the  assistants  half-a-crown. 

"What  have  we  got  here?"  thought  the  warm- 
ing-pan. "More  nonsense.  I'm  blest  if  he 
hasn't  torn  away  a  bedpost  from  a  four  poster 
to  stick  his  old  lamp  on!" 

And  then  he  looked  more  narrowly  and  saw 
that  the  post  was  from  the  very  bed  that  he  used 
to  warm  every  night  for  years  and  years  all  that 
long  time  ago. 

And  the  bedpost  recognized  the  warming-pan 
and  twinkled  with  joy.      (You  have  heard  about 
the  twinkling  of  a  bedpost,  haven't  you.'') 
[166] 


Reunion 

"Oh,  my  dear/'  said  the  warming-pan  di- 
rectly twelve  o'clock  struck  that  night — "oh,  my 
dear,  you  can't   think  how   glad   I   am   to   see 

I" 

you! 


[167] 


IN  THE  PADDED  SEATS 

i:    THE    COWARDLY    CONSUMER 

I  HAD  just  made  a  selection  of  the  remarks 
that  fall  naturally  from  the  tongue  when  a 
match  without  a  head  is  drawn  from  the  box, 
and  I  added  the  statement  that  the  headless 
match  is  becoming  increasingly  common.  The 
result  was  that  we  drifted  into  a  discussion  on 
the  general  inferiority  of  everything — inferior 
workmanship  everywhere  and  the  lowering  of 
all  standards  of  quality.  The  bequest  of  the 
War,  we  once  again  agreed. 

"But  it  isn't  only  the  War,"  said  our  tame 
philosopher.  "The  War  is  blamed  for  every- 
thing. But  my  memory  is  sufficiently  long  and 
accurate  to  enable  me  to  assure  you  that  there 
was  a  good  deal  of  shoddiness  in  England  even 
before  1914-.  That  couldn't  be  the  fault  of  the 
War.     What  was  it,  then?" 

To  his  intense  satisfaction  no  one  had  any 
reason  to  suggest,  and  he  therefore  was  free  to 
supply  his  own. 

"I'll  tell  you,"  he  said.  "It's  our  national 
soft-heartedness  that's  to  blame.  That's  why 
[168] 


In  the  Padded  Seats 

almost  everything  is  second-rate.  The  'Two 
Nations'  into  which  we  might  be  divided  are  the 
Crafty  Producers  and  the  Cowardly  Consumers. 
For  all  our  bluster  and  nonsense  about  never 
being  slaves,  we  are  cowards  at  heart,  incapable 
of  insisting  on  our  rights.  We  may  be  brave 
for  others,  but  we're  worms  for  ourselves." 

"But  are  we?"  some  one  indignantly  in- 
quired. 

"Well,  I  am,  for  one,"  said  the  philosopher. 
"I  wish  I  could  say  otherwise,  but  I  can't.  My 
soft  heart  is  the  most  infernal  bore.  It  fills  me 
with  respect  for  other  people's  feelings  and  an 
unwillingness  to  wound  that  are  not  only  abso- 
lutely retrograde  and  obscurantist,  but  amount 
to  treachery  to  the  community." 

"But  why?  It  sounds  delightful  to  be  so 
understanding  and  considerate." 

"In  the  abstract  it  may  be,  but  in  real  life  it 
produces  inferiority  at  every  turn.  One  never 
gets  the  best." 

"But  why,  if  you  know,  do  you  put  up  with 
it?" 

"It's  because  such  sympathetic  ways  are  al- 
ways establishing  with  peojjle  closer  relations 
than  are  wise.  I  get  on  intimate  terms  too 
quickly.  And  the  next  tiling  is  that  I  and  the 
others  who  are  like  me — and  we  are  a  danger- 
ously numerous  class — are   imposed   upon." 

[\69] 


Giving  and  Receiving 

"Can't  you  protest?" 

"Protest!  No.  We  haven't  tlie  pluck.  Our 
fatal  alloy  of  pity  begins  to  work — our  terror 
lest  anything  said  or  done  by  us  should  cause 
distress.  I'll  give  you  an  example.  I've  been 
going  to  the  same  tailor  for  years,  and  every 
time  I  go  to  him  he  gets  worse.  Look  at  this 
coat." 

We  looked  at  it  with  disapproval. 

"Well,  I  can't  change  and  go  somewhere  else. 
It's  impossible.  The  tailor  and  I  have  been  too 
friendly.  I  should  lie  awake  at  night  filled  with 
remorse  and  misery.  And  I'm  not  unique.  As 
a  matter  of  fact  I  believe  I'm  normal.  It's 
because  the  majority  of  English  people  are  like 
this  that  the  quality  of  things  is  so  poor.  I've 
just  been  staj'ing  in  the  worst  hotel  I  was  ever 
in,  but  do  you  suppose  I  said  anything  about 
it?  Not  a  syllable;  I  endured  it;  and  all  be- 
cause I  allowed  myself  to  feel  sorry  for  the 
waiter  downstairs  and  the  chambermaid  upstairs. 
You  may,  all  of  you,  look  stern  now  and  affect 
to  think  me  an  idiot,  but  I'll  bet  you'd  have 
been  about  the  same.  It's  in  the  national  blood. 
We're  cowards,  we  English,  we  haven't  got 
hearts  of  oak  at  all:  our  heads  very  possibly;  but 
our  hearts  are  made  of  the  wood  of  the  weeping 
willow. 

"Another  thing,"  he  went  on.  "The  clever 
[170] 


In  the  Padded  Seats 

ones  know  about  it  and  take  advantage.  I  don't 
say  they  know  it  consciously,  but  sub-con- 
sciously. I'll  give  you  an  instance.  The  other 
day  in  a  restaurant  I  summoned  up  courage  and 
sent  for  the  manager  and,  very  nicely,  pointed 
out  that  really  I  couldn't  eat  what  was  set  be- 
fore me.  I  would  like  to,  but  I  couldn't.  He 
was  full  of  apologies.  He  took  it  away  and  in 
about  five  minutes  returned  with  a  special  dish, 
which  he  said  lie  had  superintended  himself. 
It  was  disgusting — far  more  disgusting  than 
the  last — but  under  his  eye  I  simulated  relish. 
And  all  the  while  I  was  asking  myself,  'Does 
he  know  I'm  so  weak  that  I  couldn't  complain 
again  to  save  my  life?  Has  he  really  tried  to 
please  me?  Or  is  it  the  same  dish  with  some- 
thing foul  added,  and  do  they  all  know  it,  and 
are  they  silently  giggling  as  tliey  watch  me  pre- 
tending to  enjoy  it?'  " 

We  made  sounds  expressive  of  our  compas- 
sion for  liiiii. 

"It's  all  very  well,"  he  said,  "to  be  sorry  for 
me  and  perhaps  to  despise  me.  I  despise  my- 
self. But  I  know  there's  not  one  among  you 
who  wouldn't  have  put  up  the  same  pretence. 
We're  all  like  this.  We're  all  soft-hearted.  A 
kind  word  can  buy  us.  Even  the  Crafty  Pro- 
ducers, when  they  become  Consumers,  are  the 
same;  they  are  cravens  too.      Nothing  can  ever 

[171] 


Givinf?  and  Receiving 

improve  in  England  until  ruthlessness  comes  in. 
We  shall  go  on  being  robbed  by  shopkeepers 
and  poisoned  by  restaurateurs  and  insulted  by 
theatrical  managers  and  reduced  to  madness 
by  the  Post  Master  General.  Nothing  can  be 
done  until  our  hearts  harden." 

"But  if^  as  you  say,"  some  one  said,  "the 
majority  of  English  people  are  like  you  and  go 
about  being  sentimentally  compassionate  and 
tolerating  and  forgiving  and  forgetting,  how  did 
we  ever  become  the  conquering  race?" 

"Ah!"  was  the  reply,  "that's  the  mystery." 

11 :  PUBLIC  SPIRIT 

We  were  talking — having  finished  with  poli- 
tics and  other  current  events — about  the  duties 
of  a  good  citizen,  and  the  conspicuous  ease  with 
which  they  were  now  being  avoided. 

"Why  do  you  say  'now'?"  some  one  asked. 

"Because  since  the  War  so  much  pride  has 
disappeared,"  said  our  leading  Jeremiah. 
"Everything  is  shirked  by  unconscientious 
workmen." 

"I   wish,"  murmured  the  doctor,  "some   one 

would  write  a  book  saying  what  England  before 

the  War  was  really  like.     The  way  people  talk 

you'd  think  it  was  sheer  Paradise,  but  I  seem 

[172] 


In  the  Padded  Seats 

to  remember  a  lot  of  unsatisfactory  things  even 
then." 

"The  worst  of  being  a  good  citizen,"  said  the 
artist,  "is  that  you  get  so  landed.  Any  man 
who  goes  out  of  his  way  to  be  public-spirited 
runs  horrible  risks.  That's  why  there  are  so 
few  of  us." 

"'Us'?  What  do  you  mean  by  'us'.''"  a 
scornful  voice  inquired. 

"The  public-spirited  people,"  the  artist  re- 
joined in  surprised  tones.  "Those  rare  souls 
who  put  the  good  of  the  community  before  self- 
indulgence.  I  happen  to  be  one  of  them,  and  I 
am  suffering  accordingly.  If  there  were  the 
faintest  indication  that  you  would  like  to  hear 
the  story  I  would  tell  it.  I  might  even  tell  it  if 
there  were  none." 

We  composed  ourselves  to  listen. 

"Every  one,"  he  said,  "must  liave  noticed  that 
taxi-drivers  just  now  are  a  new  set  of  men,  wlio 
know  very  little  about  London.  Once  upon  a 
time  there  was  a  strict  examination  in  topog- 
raphy at  Scotland  Yard,  and  if  a  would-be 
driver  couldn't  give  the  direct  route  from,  say, 
the  Brixton  Hon  Marcbe  to  the  (iolders  Clri-en 
Kni})irc  lie  was  put  back  a  week  or  so  for  further 
study  of  the  map.  There  was  an  excellent 
mechanic    that    I    was    interested    in    wiio    was 

[178] 


Giving  and  Receiving 

plouglied  three  times.  But  all  that  care  seems 
to  have  gone  by  the  board,  and  now  we  have 
taxi-drivers  who  know  notliing." 

Every  one  leaned  forward  to  cite  personal 
experiences  that  proved  this,  but  the  artist  con- 
trived to  hold  the  floor. 

"I  was  driven  the  other  day,"  he  went  on,  "by 
one  who  was  so  grossly  indirect  in  the  route  he 
followed  that  I  felt  I  must  do  a  thing  I  hate 
doing — I  felt  that  I  must  put  my  foot  down.  I 
was  a  silly  ass,  of  course.  Sensible  people  don't 
interfere;  they  grin  and  bear  it,  or  they  don't 
grin  but  bear  it.  Every  now  and  then,  however, 
one  feels  that  one  must  take  a  line.  It's  like 
writing  to  the  papers,  and  calling  yourself  Pro 
Bono  Publico.  The  desire  to  do  that  comes  on 
most  men  once,  I  suppose;  but  that's  a  very 
easy  imitation  of  responsible  citizenship  com- 
pared with  what  was  demanded  of  me. 

"To  make  a  short  story  long,  I  sat  in  the  cab 
summoning  up  pluck  enough  to  give  the  man 
something  less  than  his  fare  and  a  lecture  on  his 
incompetence.  I  would  remind  him  of  the  police 
regulation  which  compels  a  taxi  to  take  the 
shortest  route,  and  I  would  then  hand  him  my 
card  and  tell  him  to  take  out  a  summons  for  the 
full  fare.  I  had  never  given  a  card  in  this  way 
before,  and  I  rather  liked  the  idea  of  it.  But 
at  the  same  time,  being  a  shocking  coward,  I 
[174] 


In  the  Padded  Seats 

shrank  from  the  whole  thing.  It  only  shows 
what  an  absolutely  artificial  exotic  this  public 
spirit  is,  and  how  it  has  to  be  cultivated, 

"Well,  I  got  out  of  the  cab  with  my  card  and 
the  money  all  ready;  but  when  I  had  a  good 
look  at  the  size  of  the  man  I  weakened  again. 
Yet  I  had  to  go  on.  It  was  a  matter  of  pride, 
and  pride,  I  take  it,  is  four-fifths  of  most 
courage. 

"  'You  don't  know  your  London,*  I  said. 
'Your  duty  is  to  go  by  the  shortest  and  most 
direct  route,  and  you've  come  the  longest.' 

"His  expression,  which  had  begun  with  sur- 
prise, changed  to  dark  hostility. 

"  'Who's  come  by  the  longest  way  ?'  he  asked, 
and  I  was  forced  into  the  contemptible  position 
of  having  to  reply  tliat  he  had.  It  was  going  to 
be  an  ordinary   'You're   another'   squabble. 

"  'How?'  he  then  asked,  pushing  his  face  into 
mine  and  glaring  witli  an  awful  malignity. 

"It  was  just  this  kind  of  question  that  I 
wanted  to  avoid.  My  idea  had  been  to  hand 
him  the  money  and  tlie  card  swiftly  and  deci- 
sively and  leave  him  to  ponder  on  his  folly  while 
the  lesson  sank  in.  I  would  have  given  a  fiver 
for  the  comfort  of  a  policeman,  but  there  was 
none  in  sight. 

"I    braced    myself    again    and    went    tljrough, 
witli    it.     'Never    mind    how,'    I    said.     'You've 

[175] 


•  Giving  and  Receiving 

driven  me  so  far  out  of  the  right  course  that  I'm 
not  going  to  pay  more  than  this,  and  if  you 
think  you're  entitled  to  any  more  you  must 
summons  me';  and  I  thrust  the  coin  and  the 
card  into  his  hand,  leapt  up  the  steps  and 
banged  my  door. 

"When  I  got  inside  I  sat  down  in  the  hall 
and  felt  my  heart  beating  like  an  hydraulic  ram. 
Every  second  I  expected  to  hear  a  double  knock 
on  the  door.  Indeed,  I  shouldn't  have  been 
surprised  if  it  had  been  kicked  open,  for  he  was 
a  powerful  man. 

"But  nothing  happened,  and  after  a  while  I 
crept  upstairs,  a  physical  and  nervous  wreck. 
Still,  I  had  the  knowledge  that  I  had  done  my 
duty.  I  had  been  a  citizen.  I  don't  say  I 
glowed,  but  I  was  conscious  of  rectitude." 

He  paused. 

Then  he  resumed.  "But  now,"  he  said,  "I've 
lost  all  that  feeling." 

"Why.^"  we  asked. 

"Because,"  hn  said,  "I  daren't  take  a  cab  any 
more.  I'm  so  terrified  that  the  driver  might 
turn  out  to  be  that  one  that  I  creep  about  on 
foot  or  straphang.  It's  like  Captain  Hook  and 
the  crocodile.  I  came  here  this  evening  in  an 
omnibus,  in  which  I  was  one  of  five  men  cling- 
ing to  the  ceiling.  No,  no  more  public  spirit. 
Finished." 
[176] 


In  the  Padded  Seats 

"Poor  old  chap!"  said  our  leading  cynic. 
"And  he's  not  even  got  the  reclame  he'd  have 
got  from  the  case  if  the  driver  had  summonsed 
him!" 

in:    BEFORE    AND    AFTER 

We  were  once  again,  for  the  thousandth  time, 
discussing  pre-war  and  post-war  conditions, 
when  the  Colonel  came  in  and  placed  himself 
with  some  care  on  the  cushioned  fender  which, 
even  without  any  assistance  from  half-pay  of- 
ficers, succeeds  in  keeping  most  of  the  heat  of 
the  fire  from  the  rest  of  the  room. 

The  Colonel  listened  to  the  talk  for  some  time 
and  then  informed  us  that  the  best  example  of 
pre-war  and  post-war  differences  that  had  ever 
come  under  any  one's  notice  had  come  under  his 
own.  Before  he  could  be  asked  to  relate  the 
occurrence   he   was   already   relating  it. 

"It  was  somewhere  about  I9IO,"  lie  said, 
"and  we  had  been  living  for  several  years  in  a 
rambling  old  place  in  Kent.  It  was  near  Ash- 
ford  ;  very  good  country,  but  the  house  was  low- 
lying  and,  liaving  a  horror  of  rheumatism,  we 
decided  to  move  to  London.  So  we  went  up  to 
town  and  saw  various  agents  and  at  last  settled 
on  a  house  in  Kensington. 

"Having  fixed  it  uj)  and  put  the  decorators 
in  we  went  back  to  Ashford  to  prepare  for  the 

[177] 


Giving  and  Receiving 

move.  It  must  have  been  about  a  week  later 
that  I  was  called  out  of  the  garden  to  meet  a 
stranger  who  gave  no  name  but  said  he  had  come 
from  London  on  purpose  to  see  me. 

"One  has  one's  weak  moments,  and  I  went. 

"I  found  him  in  my  study — an  ordinary-look- 
ing man  with  a  bowler  hat,  who  was  a  shade  too 
deferential  in  manner.  He  handed  me  his  card 
— So-and-so,  Family  Butcher,  somewhere  in 
Notting  Hill.  Hearing  that  we  were  moving 
into  his  neighbourhood,  he  said,  he  had  come 
down  to  solicit  the  honour  of  purveying  the  best 
English  mutton  and  Scotch  beef  to  my  house- 
hold. They  say  'purvey,'  but  Heaven  knows 
why  it's  a  better  word  than  'provide'  or  'supply.' 

"Well,  as  I  didn't  know  anything  about 
butchers  in  London,  and  as  he  had  taken  the 
trouble  to  come  all  that  way  to  ask  for  our 
custom,  I  said  we  would  try  him ;  and  he  went 
off  much  gratified,  leaving  his  card  on  my  man- 
tel-piece. 

"A  week  later  another  fellow  called  in  j.ust 
the  same  way.  I  saw  him  too — the  same  type 
exactly:  bowler  hat  and  apologetics.  But 
this  time  I  wouldn't  let  him  begin;  I  got  in 
first. 

"  'You're  a  Kensington  butcher,'  I  said,  'and 
you  have  come  all  the  way  from  town  to  solicit 
the  honour  of  purveying  the  best  English  mut- 
[178] 


In  the  Padded  Seats 

ton  and  Scotch  beef  to  my  household  when  we 
move  to  Campden  Hill.' 

"He  admitted  it. 

"'But  you're  too  late,'  I  said;  'you've  lost 
by  a  week.' 

"I  gave  him  a  drink  by  way  of  a  solatium  and 
we  had  a  little  talk.  I  asked  him  how  they 
discovered  who  the  new  tenants  were,  and  he 
said  that  they  got  the  information  from  the 
agents.  Directly  they  saw  the  'Let'  notice  up 
they  made  inquiries. 

"  'And  how  far  would  you  go  for  a  new  cus- 
tomer.'*' I  asked  him,  'Ashford  is  nearly  sixty 
miles,  and  then  tlicre's  the  cab  to  ni}^  house,  and 
you  must  get  lunch  somewhere.  That  all  costs 
money,  and  you'd  have  to  stick  it  on  the  joints 
like  anything  to  get  it  back.  How  far  would 
you  go.^' 

"He  said  that  for  a  good  customer  he'd  go  any 
distance.  Customers  were  what  they  wanted. 
There  was  terrible  competition  for  them. 

"And  thru  he  j;ot  into  his  cab  and  returned  to 
town   with  Iiis  t.iil  between  his  legs. 

"Well,"  said  the  C()h)nel,  "we  moved,  and 
we  got  our  meat  from  the  first  fellow,  and  he 
was  all  right.  We  stuck  to  him  until  wc  left  in 
I9I8  and  went  to  Kcigate." 

He  braced  himself  for  his  denouement.  "Not 
long  ago,"  he  continuc^d,  "I  came  up  to  sec  my 

[179J 


Giving  and  Receiving 

sister  in  the  Cromwell  Road,  and  while  I  was 
there  some  people  telephoned  inviting  them- 
selves to  lunch,  and  as  the  household  was  short- 
handed  and  busy  I  volunteered  to  go  out  and 
get  the  necessary  cutlets. 

"Would  you  believe  it,  the  very  first  butcher 
I  came  to  was  the  fellow  who  had  come  to  Ash- 
ford  a  week  too  late,  the  fellow  who  would  go 
almost  any  distance  for  a  customer;  I  recog- 
nized him  in  a  twinkling,  although  he  had  a  blue 
apron  on  and  several  years  had  passed. 

"  'I  want  some  cutlets,'  I  said. 

"'Are  you  one  of  our  regular  customers?'  he 
asked. 

"'No,'   I   said. 

"  'Then  I'm  sorry  but  I  can't  serve  you/  he 
replied. 

"Can  you  beat  it?" 

IV :    TIGHT    CORNERS 

The  talk  was  running  on  the  critical  situa- 
tions in  which  we  had  found  ourselves — those 
of  us  whose  lives  were  adventurous  enough  to 
comprise  any. 

One  man  had  been  caught  by  the  tide  in  Brit- 
tany and  escaped  by  the  skin  of  his  teeth.  An- 
other had  been  on  an  elephant  when  a  wounded 
tiger  charged  at  it.  A  third  had  been  on  the 
[180J 


In  the  Padded  Seats 

top  storey  of  a  burning  house.     A  fourth  was 
torpedoed  in  the  War. 

"But  you  all  talk,"  said  one  of  the  company, 
"as  though  tight  corners  were  always  physical 
aflFairs.  Surely  they  can  be  tighter  when  they 
are  mental.  The  tightest  comer  I  was  ever  in 
was  at  Christie's." 

"Christie's.^" 

"Yes.  I  had  been  lunching  rather  well  at  a 
club  in  St.  James's  Street  with  an  old  friend 
from  abroad,  and  passing  along  King  Street 
afterwards,  he  persuaded  me  to  look  in  at  the 
sale-room.  The  place  was  full.  They  were 
selling  Barbizon  pictures,  and  getting  tremen- 
dous  sums  for  each:  two  thousand,  three  thou- 
sand, for  little  bits  of  things — forest  scenes, 
pools  at  evening,  shepherdesses,  the  regular 
subjects.  Nothing  went  for  three  figures  at  all. 
Well,  we  watclied  for  a  little  while  and  then  I 
found  myself  bidding  too — just  for  fun.  I  had 
exactly  sixty-three  pounds  in  the  bank  and  not 
enough  securities  to  borrow  five  hundred  on, 
and  here  I  was  nodding  away  to  the  auctioneer 
like  a  bloatocrat. 

"  'You'll  get  caught,'  my  friend  said  to  me. 

"  'No,    I    shan't,"    I    said.      'I'm    not   going   to 
run  any  risks.' 

"And   for  a  long  tiinr    I   didn't.      And  llien  a 
picture  was  put  up  and  a  short  red- faced  man  in 

[181] 


Giving  and  Receiving 

a  new  top-liat — some   well-known   dealer — who 
had  bought  quite  a  number,  electrified  the  room 
by    starting    the    bidding    at    a    figure    a    little 
higher  than  any  that  he  had  yet  given  or  that 
anything  had  reached.     Although  the  previous 
lots  had  run  into  four  figures  they  had  all  been 
modestly  started  at  fifty  guineas  or  a  hundred 
guineas,   with  a  gradual   crescendo  to  which   I 
had    often    been    safely    contributing.     But    no 
sooner  was  the  new  picture  displayed  than  the 
dealer  made  his  sensational  bid,  'Four  thousand 
guineas,'  he  said. 

"There  was  a  rustle  of  excitement,  and  at  the 
end  of  it  I  heard  my  own  voice  saying,  'And 
fifty!' 

"A  terrible  silence  followed,  during  which  the 
auctioneer  looked  inquiringly  first  at  the  opener 
and  then  at  the  company  generally.  To  my  sur- 
prise and  horror  the  red-faced  dealer  gave  no 
sign  of  life.  I  realized  now,  as  I  ought  to  have 
done  at  first,  that  he  had  shot  his  bolt. 

"  'Four  thousand  and  fifty  guineas  offered/ 
said  the  auctioneer,  again  searching  the  room. 

"My  heart  stopped;  my  blood  congealed. 
There  was  no  sound  but  a  curious  smothered 
noise   from  my   friend. 

"  'Four    thousand    and    fifty    guineas.     Any 
advance  on  four  thousand  and  fifty  guineas?' — 
and  the  hammer  fell. 
[182] 


In  the  Padded  Seats 

"That  was  a  nice  pickle  to  be  in !  Here  was 
I,  with  sixty-three  pounds  in  the  world  and  not 
five  hundred  pounds'  worth  of  securities,  the 
purchaser  of  a  picture  which  I  didn't  want,  for 
four  thousand  and  fifty  guineas,  the  top  price 
of  the  day.  Turning  for  some  kindly  support 
to  my  friend  I  found  that  he  had  left  me;  but 
not,  as  I  feared  at  the  moment,  from  baseness, 
but,  as  I  afterwards  discovered,  in  order  to  find 
a  remote  place  in  which  to  lean  against  the 
M'all  and  laugh. 

"Stunned  and  dazed  as  I  was,  I  pulled  myself 
together  sufficiently  to  hand  my  card,  nonchal- 
antly (I  hope)  to  the  clerk  who  came  for  the 
millionaire  collector's  name,  and  then  I  set  to 
pondering  on  the  problem  what  to  do  next.  Pic- 
ture after  picture  was  put  up  and  sold,  but  I 
saw  none  of  them.  I  was  running  over  the 
names  of  uncles  and  other  persons  from  whom  it 
might  be  possible  to  Iwrrow,  but  wasn't;  won- 
dering if  the  moneylenders  who  talk  so  glibly 
about  'note  of  hand  only'  really  mean  it;  specu- 
lating on  the  possibility  of  confessing  my  pov- 
erty to  one  of  Christie's  staff  and  having  the 
picture  put  up  again.  I'l  rli,i])s  that  was  the 
best  way — and  yet  how  could  I  do  it  after  all 
the  other  bids  I  h.id  made?  The  staff  looked 
so  prosperous  and  unsynii)athetic,  and  no  one 
would  believe  it  was  a  mistake.     A  genuine  mis- 

[18;J] 


Giving  and  Receiving 

take  of  such  a  kind  would  have  been  rectified  at 
once. 

"Meanwliile  the  sale  came  to  an  end  and  I 
stood  on  the  outskirts  of  the  little  knot  of 
buyers  round  the  desk  who  were  writing  cheques 
and  giving  instructions.  Naturally  I  preferred 
to  be  the  last.  It  was  there  that  I  was  joined 
by  my  friend ;  but  only  for  a  moment,  for  at  a 
look  at  my  face  he  rammed  his  handkerchief  in 
his  mouth  and  again  disappeared.  Alone  I  was 
to  dree  this  awful  weird.  I  have  never  felt 
such  a  fool  or  had  colder  feet  in  all  my  life. 
I  believe  I  should  have  welcomed  a  firing  party. 

"And  then  the  unexpected  happened,  and  I 
realized  that  a  career  of  rectitude  sometimes  has 
rewards  beyond  the  mere  consciousness  of  virtue. 
A  voice  at  my  ear  suddenly  said,  'Beg  pardon. 
Sir,  but  was  you  the  gent  that  bought  the  big 
Daubigny  ?' 

"I  admitted  it. 

"  'Well,  the  gent  who  offered  four  thousand 
guineas  wants  to  know  if  you'll  take  fifty  guineas 
for  your  bid.' 

"If  ever  a  messenger  of  the  high  gods  wore  a 
green  baize  apron  and  spoke  in  husky  Cockney 
tones  this  was  he.  I  could  have  embraced  him 
and  wept  for  joy.  Would  I  take  fifty  guineas.'' 
Why,  I  would  have  taken  fifty  farthings. 

"But  how  near  the  surface  and  ready,  even  in 
[184] 


In  the  Padded  Seats 

the  best  of  us,  is  worldly  guile!  'Is  that  the 
most  he  would  offer?'  I  had  the  presence  of 
mind  to  ask. 

"  'It's  not  for  me  to  say,'  he  replied.  'No 
'arm  in  trying  for  a  bit  more,  is  there?' 

"  'Tell  him  I'll  take  a  hundred,'  I  said. 

"And  I  got  it. 

"When  I  found  my  friend  I  was  laughing  too, 
but  he  became  grave  at  once  on  seeing  the 
cheque. 

'"Well,  I'm  hanged!'  he  said.  'Of  all  the 
luck!     Well,  I'm  hanged!' 

"Then  he  said,  'Don't  forget  that  if  it  hadn't 
been  for  me  you  wouldn't  have  come  into  Chris- 
tie's at  all.' 

"  'I  shall  never  forget  it,'  I  said.  'It  is  in- 
delibly branded  in  letters  of  fire  on  my  heart. 
My  hair  hasn't  gone  white,  has  it.^'  " 

V:    AN    IMPLACABLE    RACONTEUR 

Some  men  have  no  pity. 

"Now  that's  an  amazing  thing,"  said  the 
dramatist  as  he  sank  into  the  cliair  beside  me. 
"Did  you  see  that  man  go  out?  Well,  he's  just 
told  me  a  story  I  told  liiin  yesterday,  and  he 
told  it  very  badly  too." 

"Why  didn't  you  stop  him?"  I  asked. 

[185] 


Giving  and  Receiving 

"He  didn't  give  me  a  chance.  A  man  who 
has  a  story  to  tell  is  a  very  difficult  fellow  to 
stop." 

"You  could  say  you'd  heard  it." 

"Quite  useless.  He'd  say,  'I  doubt  if  you've 
heard  my  version,'  and  go  right  on.  No,  the 
only  chance  you  have  is  to  insist  that  it  was  a 
story  that  you  yourself  told  him  yesterday. 
That  sometimes  abashes  them,  but  not  always. 
This  fellow  was  in  full  swing  before  I  realized 
what  was  happening,  and  then  I  didn't  say  any- 
thing for  fear  of  hurting  his  feelings.  Fear  of 
hurting  other  people's  feelings  is  at  the  bottom 
of  most  troubles  and  all  boredom." 

I  agreed. 

"And  then  after  he  had  begun,  I  was  inter- 
ested to  see  how  he  would  finish  it.  It's  the 
kind  of  story  that  depends  on  the  finish." 

"And  he  told  it  badly?"  I  repeated. 

"Yes.  He's  not  a  raconteur,  anyway;  he 
couldn't  tell  any  story  really  well,  least  of  all  a 
subtle  one  like  this." 

"It's  a  most  extraordinary  thing,"  said  the 
doctor,  who  was  sitting  near  by  and  now  laid 
down  his  paper,  "that  every  man  seems  to  be 
under  the  delusion  that  he  is  a  born  raconteur. 
Why?  We  admit  frankly  that  we  can't  act,  we 
can't  mimic,  we  can't  sing,  we  can't  dance  even ; 
but  we  all  lay  claim  to  the  gift  of  telling  a  story. 
[186] 


In  the  Padded  Seats 

Nothing  in  fact  is  so  difficult  as  to  tell  a  story 
well.  It  needs  a  score  of  separate  gifts.  And 
yet  every  one  who  has  heard  a  story  is  under  the 
impression  that  he  is  qualified  to  repeat  it. 
Absurd.  I  should  like  to  belong  to  a  club 
where  any  member  who  told  a  story  badly  would 
be  expelled." 

"You're  right,"  said  the  dramatist.  "There 
ought  to  be  a  School  of  Narrative  Art,  just  as 
there  is  a  School  of  Dramatic  Art." 

"Ought  there?"  said  the  doctor.  "I  doubt 
it.  Personally  I  should  infinitely  prefer  a  sys- 
tem designed  not  for  encouraging  story-telling, 
but  for  suppressing  the  practice." 

So  saying  he  left  us. 
•  "All  the  same,"  said  the  dramatist,  "although 
I  am  not  in  favour  of  adding  to  the  educational 
establishments  of  this  country,  I  do  hold  that  a 
school  for  raconteurs  would  be  an  excellent 
thing.  Tile  way  stories  are  murdered  and  man- 
gled to-day  is  something  lamentable.  Take  the 
one  I  was  talking  about  when  you  came  in — 
the  story  of  the  close  race." 

"Oh,  that,"  said   I.     "I've  heard  it." 

"Yes,  very  likely.  But  I  wonder  if  you  heard 
it  right,"  the  dramatist  pursued.  "The  exact 
phrasing  has  a  lot  to  do  witli  it." 

"I  expect  it  was  all  right,"  F  said.  "1  had  il 
from  Travers,  and  he  usually  tells  u  story  well." 

[187] 


Giviiio'  and  Receiving 

"Do  you  tliink  he  does?" 

"Yes,  I  do,"  I  said. 

"I  wonder.  In  my  version  it  goes  like  this." 
And  he  then  settled  down  to  his  too  congenial 
task. 

"You  can  either  tell  it  as  a  story  frankly/'  he 
said,  "or  you  can  lure  the  company  on  to  give 
examples  of  the  closest  races  they  have  ever 
seen  and  then  chip  in  with  the  denouement. 
It's  all  in  the  denouement." 

"I  know,"  I  said;  "I've  heard  it." 

"Yes,  but  you  must  hear  it  right.     Now  I'll 
tell  it  you  wrong  first — as  that  fellow  just  now 
told   it  to   me,   and   then   I'll  tell   it  my   way. 
Well,  you  begin  by  saying  that  there  were  three 
men  talking  about  close   races  they  had   seen. . 
One   said  that  once,   when  he  was   at   Henley 
watching  the  tussle  for  the  Goblets,  the  boats 
were   absolutely    level    until    the    sun    raised   a 
blister  on  the  bow  of  one  of  them  and  it  won. 
Could  there  be  a  closer  race  than  that?     The 
second  man  said  that  he  had  once  seen  what  was 
bound  to  be  a  dead-heat  for  the  Derby  until  a 
bee  stung  one  of  the  horses  on  the  nose  and, 
owing  to  the  swelling,  it  won.     That's  the  kind 
of  thing — you  can  invent  whatever  nonsense  you 
like;  but  you  must  always  add,  'Could  there  be 
a  closer  race  than  that?'     And  then  the  third 
man  says,  'Well,  you  may  call  those  close  races, 
[188] 


In  the  Padded  Seats 

if  you  like.  But  I  can  tell  you  of  a  closer.  I 
know  the  Scotch.' 

"Well,"  the  dramatist  continued,  "that's  how 
the  man  told  it  to  me  just  now;  but  I  think 
that's  too  direct.  When  I  tell  it,  I  say,  'Ah, 
well,  I  suppose  those  were  close  races.  But 
last  summer  I  was  in  Aberdeen  .  .  .'  and  leave 
it  there.     More  subtle,  don't  you  think  .^" 

I  said  I  feared  it  might  be  too  subtle. 

"Of  course,"  the  dramatist  hastened  to  say, 
"ethnologically  I  think  it's  rot.  The  Scotch  are 
not  like  that,  really;  it's  just  a  convention  to  say 
they  are.  But  for  the  purposes  of  the  story,  yes." 

At  this  moment  anotlier  member  of  the  club 
drifted  in  and  subsided  into  an  arm-chair.  The 
dramatist  hailed  him. 

"I  was  just  telling  our  friend  here,"  he  said, 
"the  story  of  the  close  race.  I  wonder  if  you've 
heard  it.?" 

"About  the  Scotch?  I  have,"  said  the  new 
arrival. 

"Ah,  but  I  doubt  if  you've  heard  my  version," 
the  dramatist  persisted. 

It  was  here  that  I  crept  away. 

Vi:  THE   noND 

"Life's   rum,  isn't  it?"  said   Standish. 
"In  what  particular?"  I  asked. 

[18.91 


Giving  and  Receiving 

"In  most,"  he  said.  "But  just  at  the  moment 
I  was  thinking  of  imperfect  sympathies;  I  was 
thinking  of  the  long  time  it  takes  to  understand 
some  people;  waiting  for  Fate's  clock  to  strike; 
and  so  on.  When  I  was  at  Winchester  thirty 
and  more  years  ago,  there  was  a  boy  I  rather 
admired.  But  I  never  quite  got  on  with  him. 
He  was  reserved,  and  so  was  I ;  he  was  a  little 
senior  to  me;  he  had  a  rather  aloof  way  with 
him.  Sometimes  we  seemed  to  be  on  the  brink 
of  a  complete  understanding,  and  then  it  all 
went  wrong.  Perhaps  the  best  way  to  put  it  is 
that  he  attracted  and  repelled  almost  equally; 
but  one  never  knew  when  the  currents  would 
change.  Anyway,  we  went  through  our  time  at 
W^inchester  without  ever  getting  properly  on 
terms,  and  I  regretted  it  then  with  some  acute- 
ness,  and  have  regretted  it  mildly  ever  since." 

"Yes?"  I  said. 

"We  never  met  after  leaving  school,"  he  con- 
tinued. "I  went  to  Oxford  and  he  didn't,  and, 
except  that  I  heard  of  him  at  the  Bar,  I  knew 
nothing  of  him.  For  thirty  years  and  more — 
thirty-three,  to  be  exact — I  had  never  seen  him 
till Well,  it  was  as  long  as  that." 

He  paused. 

"You  know  the  phrase,  'How  little  did  I 
think  !'  It's  alwaA's  cropping  up  in  our  lives — a 
perpetually    recurring    tribute    to    the    way    in 

[190] 


In  the  Padded  Seats 

which  the  more  distant  and  apparent!}-  irrecon- 
cilable events  are  linked  together.  'How  little 
did  I  think !'  You've  said  it  to  yourself  scores 
of  times?" 

"More  like  hundreds,"  I  replied. 

"Yes,  hundreds/'  he  repeated.  "But  never 
have  I  said  it  with  more  astonishment  than  this 
morning.     I'll  tell  you.      You  know  my  son?" 

"The  one  who  was  lunching  with  you  the  other 
day.?"  I  asked.     "The  sailor?" 

"Yes,  I've  only  one." 

"A  nice  frank  boy  I  thought  him,"  I  said. 

"Yes,  I  think  he  is;  I  hope  so.  The  sea's 
■good  for  them.  Gives  them  level  eyes;  keeps 
them  simple.  Well,  latterly,  he's  been  having 
some  leave,  and  he  seems  to  have  spent  it  in 
the  usual  way,  for  he  came  to  me  the  other  day 
and  said  he  was  engaged.  The  prettiest,  sweet- 
est girl  in  tlu-  world,  and  all  the  rest  of  it.  It 
was  sooner  than  I  had  been  hoping;  I  had  even 
made  some  foolish  plans  about  holiday  jaunts 
with  him  alone.  What's  the  use?"  He  sighed. 
"Anyway,  there  it  was,  and  as  everything 
seemed  settled  I  had  to  acquiesce — always  pro- 
vided that  tlicre  was  similarly  no  objection  on 
the  side  of  tlu;  fprl's  jjcople.  Her  father,  it 
seemed,  was  l)(iiig  told  at  the  same  time  that  I 
was.  'What  is  lur  falhcr?'  I  asked.  Odd  iiow 
one  says  'what?'  before  'who?'     The  boy  didn't 


Givinpf  and  Receiving 

know — very  characteristically.  His  name, 
then?  Hurley.  The  only  Hurley  I  had  ever 
met  was  my  school-fellow  at  Winchester — the 
boy  with  whom  I  had  never  been  able  quite  to 
get  on  terms.     You  see  what's  coming?" 

I  said  that  it  looked  easy,  but  there  was  often 
a  catch. 

He  continued:  "It  was  arranged  that  I  should 
call  on  him,  and  this  morning  I  did  so;  and  he 
was  my  Winchester  Hurley,  after  all.  Of 
course  he  was ;  he  had  to  be !  Well,  we  fixed  up 
the  engagement,  and  I  saw  the  girl — she's 
pretty,  right  enough — and  then  we  began  to 
talk,  and  I  told  him  just  what  I've  been  telling 
you  about  my  feelings  for  him  at  school;  and 
what  do  you  think  he  said?  He  said,  'That's 
exactly  how  I  used  to  feel  about  you.  I  wanted 
you  for  a  friend,  and  I  couldn't  get  you,  and  it 
worried  me.'  " 

Standish  was  silent  for  a  moment.  Then  he 
added  with  a  smile:  "Hurley's  dining  with  me 
here  to-night." 

"Splendid,"  I  said. 

"But  the  joke  is,"  he  went  on,  "that  suddenly 
we  both  began  to  say,  simultaneously,  'How 
little  did  I  think '  " 

I  laughed.     "Of  course." 

"It  is  odd,  isn't  it,  life?"  he  resumed.     "Here 
were  two  boys  failing  to  get  to  know  each  other, 
[192]    ' 


In  the  Padded  Seats 

and  then,  thirty  years  after,  they  are  brought 
together,  and  without  any  of  the  old  hesitation 
or  awkwardness,  by  the  agency  of  their  chil- 
dren. School-boys'  children !  Children  unborn, 
unthought  of,  were  to  fix  it  up.  Devilish 
rum!" 


[193] 


FATE 

HISTORY  is  said  to  repeat  itself,  but  few 
persons  live  long  enough  to  notice  it  do- 
ing so.  Except,  of  course,  in  the  matter  of 
miners'  strikes.  On  the  other  hand,  any  one 
who  keeps  a  diary  can  prove  that  weather  re- 
peats itself  with  some  steadiness.  The  benig- 
nant Good  Friday  that  rejoiced  us  all  the  other 
day,  for  example,  was  an  exact  replica  of  a 
Good  Friday  about  a  dozen  years  ago,  when  I 
was  spending  Easter  with  some  friends  in 
Surrey,  in  one  of  those  pleasant  half-timbered 
gabled  houses  on  the  slopes  of  Leith  Hill. 

There  was  no  lawn  tennis  yet,  for  Easter  was 
early  and  the  fine  weather  very  sudden,  and  so 
after  lunch  it  was  suggested  that  some  of  us 
should  walk  over  to  Coldharbour  "to  see  the 
girls." 

"You'd  like  to,"  my  hostess  said  to  me, 
"wouldn't  you.''" 

And  I  said  "Yes,"  on  the  ground  of  general 
friendliness,  or  even  amativeness,  although  who 
the  girls  were  I  had  no  notion. 

On  arriving  at  a  tiny  cottage  with  a  garden 
stretching  down  to  the  road,  it  was  discovered 
[194] 


Fate 

that  they  were  two  art  students  who  had  made 
this  their  country  home.  Very  jolly  girls,  too, 
and  very  pretty  in  their  blue  smocks.  One  in 
particular — the   fair-haired  one — I  admired. 

It  was  after  we  had  finished  tea  that  the  fair- 
haired  girl,  who  had  been  down  at  the  gate 
looking  along  the  road  at  the  many  stragglers 
from  town  tempted  out  by  the  fine  weather  and 
the  holiday,  suddenly  said,  "Wouldn't  it  be  a 
joke  to  put  up  a  'Teas  Provided'  notice!  All 
those  poor  things  are  dying  for  tea.  And,"  she 
added  wistfully,  "it  might  help  us  to  pay  our 
rent." 

"Why  not.^"  I  said.  "All  you  want  is  a 
board  to  stick  the  notice  to";  and  we  instantly 
became  busy  with  the  game.  The  girls  put  their 
biggest  kettles  on  the  fire;  others  were  set  to 
cutting  bread-and-butter;  some  one  was  dis- 
patched to  a  neighbour's  for  more  milk  and 
butter;  pots  of  jam  were  excavated  from  tlie 
store-cupboard ;  and  I  was  given  the  task  of 
fixing  up  the  placard  in  a  consj)icu()u.s  position. 

It  worked  like  magic.  I  had  hardly  turned 
round  from  surveying  the  board  when  the  first 
customers  entered. 

Customers  continued  to  enter  until  all  the 
food  was  eaten  and  quite  a  lot  of  money  liad 
been  taken,  and  we  were  all  tired  out  with  our 
duties.      And   the  experiment   had    been   so  sac- 


Giving  and  Receiving 

cessful  that  all  the  customers  expressed  satis- 
faction and  the  determination  not  only  to  return 
some  day  but  to  recommend  the  place  to  their 
friends. 

But  "Never  again!"  the  girls  vowed,  as  they 
contemplated  their  empty  larder:  so  empty  that 
we  had  to  carry  them  back  with  us  to  dinner. 

That  was — how  many  years  ago? — ten  years 
at  least,  during  which  I  never  saw  them,  or 
indeed  thought  of  them. 

This  last  Easter  I  had  no  such  adventure, 
being  kept  in  town.  But  early  spring  chancing 
to  be  the  one  time  when  London  is  just  about  as 
good  as  the  country,  I  did  not  complain:  and  as 
I  walked  through  Kensington  Gardens  on  Good 
Friday  afternoon  I  felt  as  contented  with  life 
and  as  confident  of  a  summer  in  store  for  us  as 
any  one  in  the  real  Arcady  could  be.  Many  of 
the  trees  were  covered  with  tender  green  buds ; 
others  were  merely  holding  back;  blackbirds 
were  singing.  Every  one  was  in  holiday  mood. 
Some  day,  not  far  distant,  the  Oval  and  Lord's 
would  open  their  gates  ! 

I  paused  by  the  Round  Pond  to  watch  the 
navigators  at  their  play,  and  was  conscious  of  a 
small  boy,  with  a  Sealyham  frisking  about  his 
feet,  who  was  waiting,  pole  in  hand,  for  his 
wayward  ship  to  make  harbour.  I  was  pecu- 
liarly interested  in  this  little  boy,  because  of  his 
[196] 


Fate 

eagerness  and  the  radiance  which  emanated 
from  his  clear  skin  and  sunny  locks;  he  seemed 
to  add  to  the  light  of  the  day,  perhaps  actually 
did  so.  He  was  dressed  in  one  of  those  suits 
of  (woollen)  mail  in  which  children  now  run 
about  so  attractively,  the  colour  being  a  ruddy 
tint  somewhere  between  the  flesh  of  a  salmon 
trout  and  the  bricks  of  Hampton  Court,  and 
altogetlier  he  was  very  pleasant  indeed  to  look 
upon. 

The  vessel  having  given  up  its  circular  tack- 
ings  and  at  last  condescended  to  reach  shore,  the 
little  boy  was  joined  by  his  mother,  a  tall, 
graceful  young  woman  in  the  late  twenties, 
whom  I  felt  sure  I  had  seen  before  but  could 
not  place,  and  they  prepared  to  leave.  As  they 
passed  me  a  look  of  recognition  came  into  her 
eyes  and  she  smiled,  and  instantly  I  knew  who 
she  was.  She  was  one  of  the  two  girls  who 
had  the  cottage  near  Leith  Hill — the  one  wlio, 
on  that  other  liappy  Good  Friday,  had  sug- 
gested putting  up  the  notice,  "Teas  Provided." 

We  recalled  tliis  incident  as  I  walked  with 
her  towards  Campden  Hill. 

"Do  you  remember  wlio  our  first  customers 
were.^"  she  asked. 

I  said  that  I  couldn't  exactly. 

"Surely  you  reniemlx-r  ?"  she  said.  "An 
oldish  man  and  his  undcrKraduate  son." 

•  [197] 


Giving  and  Receiving 

"Oh,  yes,  of  course,"  I  said.  "In  grey 
tweeds.     The   son  rather  nervous  and  shy." 

She  laughed. 

"Do  you  see  any  likeness  between  him  and 
my  little  boy.''"  she  inquired. 

"Good    Heavens !"    I    exclaimed.     "Did    you 

Surely But  that's  destiny  if  you  like. 

That  was  asking  for  it." 

"Yes,"  she  replied,  "wasn't  it.''  We  became 
engaged  that  summer." 


[198] 


THE  INJUSTICE 

IF  I  were  able  to  converse  with  the  dead,  one 
of  the  first  persons  to  whom  I  should  try  to 
get  an  introduction  would  be  Murillo,  because 
I  have  so  strongly  on  my  mind  an  injustice  to 
that  painter  which  is  being  done  systematically 
every  day  in  the  cathedral  at  Seville.  I  think 
he  ought  to  know  about  it  and  put  it  riglit. 

Imagine  the  introduction  completed:  Murillo 
called  by  a  celestial  page  from  some  favoured 
spot  near  the  Throne — for  one  who  painted  the 
Son  and  the  Mother  as  he  did  must  be  honoured 
exceedingly — to  what  corresponds  in  Heaven 
to  an  eartlily  telephone-box,  and  myself  at 
the  other  end  of  the  invisible  broadcasting 
wire. 

Then,  "Master,"  I  should  say,  assuming  that 
to  the  disembodied  all  languages  arc  equally 
simple — "Master,  you  remember  your  picture  in 
Seville  Cathedral— 'St.  Anthony  of  Padua 
visited  by  the  Infant  Saviour' — one  of  those  you 
painted   for  the  (■|iaj)t(r?" 

And  MuriUo.  althougli  he  jinintt-d  so  much 
and  so  fr«-ely,  and  although  St.  AiiUiony  was 
more  than  once  his  subject,  would,   F   feel  sure, 

[wu] 


Giving  and  Receiving 

have  a  very  distinct  remembrance  of  this  beau- 
tiful tiling. 

"It  is  now  in  the  Baptistery  of  the  Cathe- 
dral," I  should,  however,  explain,  in  case  he 
might  have  forgotten;  "the  first  chapel  on  the 
left  as  you  enter  from  the  north-west  door,  just 
past  the  inner  door  of  the  Sagradio. 

"You  go  in  out  of  the  blinding  Seville  sun," 
I  should  continue. 

Here  I  imagine  Murillo  would  smile  wistfully. 

"And  from  the  shattering  noise  of  the 
trams.  .  .  ." 

"Trams?"  he  would  ask  in  wonder;  and  I 
should  have  to  explain  what  trams  are,  and 
rebuke  myself  for  being  such  a  bungler  as  to 
mention  them  and  confuse  the  issue. 

Then  I  should  hurry  on:  "You  go  out  of  the 
street  into  restful  gloom  and  perfect  quiet — 
unless  perhaps  the  organ  is  being  played.  But 
you  know  all  this?" 

And  Murillo  would  indicate  that  he  knew, 
perhaps  again  not  without  a  certain  wistfulness. 

"And  now,"  I  should  say,  "to  come  to  the 
injustice.  Your  'St.  Anthony'  hangs  in  the 
little  chapel,  which  is  always  barred  and  bolted 
and  always  dark,  except  when  well-to-do  visi- 
tors want  to  see  it.  Then,  and  only  then,  is  the 
chapel  unlocked  and  the  blind  of  the  window 
pulled  up.  That  is  to  say,  the  sight  of  your 
[200] 


The  Injustice 

beautiful  painting,  made  for  the  House  of  God, 
every  corner  of  which  should  be  open  and  free 
to  all — the  sight  of  this  painting  is  obtainable 
only  by  those  who  can  afford  to  pay  the  sacris- 
tan a  fee.     What  do  you  think  about  it?" 

And  Murillo,  I  am  sure,  would  be  seriously 
disturbed. 

"I  can't  believe,"  he  might  say,  "that  the 
Church — my  Church — is  as  mercenary  as  that. 
Don't  you  think  there  is  a  fear  that  constant 
light  might  injure  the  picture.''" 

"There  is  constant  light  in  the  Seville  Mu- 
seum," I  should  reply,  "where  seventeen  of  your 
masterpieces  hang,  including  your  favourite,  the 
'St.  Thomas  distributing  Alms.'  " 

And  at  the  mention  of  this  picture  Afurillo,  I 
tliink,  would  utter  a  sigh,  for  of  all  his  works  the 
"St.  Thomas"  was  the  one  he  loved  best. 

"And  in  tlie  Prado,"  I  should  go  on,  "a  room 
is  dedicated  to  you,  and  the  blinds  are  always 
up." 

"Do  you  really  mean  to  tell  me,"  Murillo 
would  say,  "that  my  'St.  Anthony,'  in  the 
Cathedral,  is  not  normally  visible  at  all?  That 
visitors  to  the  Cathedral  are  absolutely  unable 
to  sec  it  witliout  applying  to  tlie  sacris- 
tan?" 

And  I  sliould  liavo  to  tell  liim  that  that  is  tlie 
case. 

[201] 


Giving  and  Receiving 

"And  do  people  want  to  see  it,  try  to  see  it?" 
he  might  ask. 

And  I  should  tell  him  that  there  are  always 
some  at  tlic  bars  trying  to  pierce  the  gloom 
or  waiting  for  a  party  of  wealthy  tourists  to 
arrive  with  the  sacristan. 

"And  the  sacristan  receives  money?" 

"Every  time." 

"And  I  painted  for  the  poor!"  Murillo  would 
exclaim.  "I  painted  for  the  poor  and  the  sim- 
ple. I  took  my  Madonna  from  the  people,  and 
my  Holy  Child  from  the  people !  Does  not  the 
Archbishop  of  Seville  know  about  it?" 

"Apparently  he  has  not  thought  it  worth 
while  to  interfere." 

"But  the  ecclesiastics  in  charge  of  the  Cathe- 
dral— don't  they  know?" 

"They  too  have  not  interfered,"  I  should  have 
to  reply. 

And  Murillo  would  be  silent  for  a  while. 

"It  is  not  only  the  poor,"  I  should  resume. 
"There  are  other  people  denied  your  picture  too 
— those  who  hold  that  the  Church's  treasures  of 
art  should  be  free  to  all,  and  who  therefore  re- 
fuse to  pay.  Did  you  not  intend  this  picture 
to  be  as  accessible  as,  say,  the  Confessionals?" 

"Of  course,  of  course !  Then  what  is  to  be 
done?"  he  would  ask  after  another  silence. 

"I  was  wondering,"  I  should  say,  "if  you 
[202] 


The  Injustice 

couldn't  speak  to  St.  Peter  about  it?  St.  Peter 
is  naturally  en  rapport  with  the  Vatican,  and  he 
would  let  the  Pope  know.  And  then,  of  course, 
the  Pope  would  go  into  the  whole  question  of 
such  fees.  He  cannot  be  aware  how  prevalent 
they  are  or  he  would  have  acted  long  ago." 


[203] 


"WHENEVER  I  SEE  A  GREY 
HORSE  .  .  ." 


ALL  horses  are  beautiful,  but  a  grey  can  be 
Am,    more  beautiful  than  any. 

You  remember  Tagalie,  who  won  the  Derby 
in  1912?  She  was  a  pretty  grey,  if  you 
like! 

No  matter  what  the  horse  may  be — racer  or 
teamster — there  is  always  something  peculiarly 
attractive  in  a  grey. 

One  does  not  see  a  pair  of  high-stepping  greys 
very  often  now,  in  these  days  of  petrol  and 
machinery,  yet  when  one  does,  how  they  can 
make  the  heart  beat ! 

But  in  future  whenever  I  see  them  I  shall  be 
conscious  only  of  a  sharp  pain. 

In  future  whenever  I  see  a  grey  horse  I  shall 
feel  indignation  and  shame  flushing  through  me. 

II 

"Of  course  you  will  go  to  a  bull-fight  while 
you  are  there,"  every  one  had  said. 
[204] 


"Whenever  I  See  a  Grey  Horse  .  .  ." 

"I  suppose  so/'  I  had  replied.  "It  would  be 
ridiculous  to  be  in  Spain  and  miss  the  chance. 
One,  at  any  rate." 

in 

The  setting  of  a  bull-fight  is  wonderful. 

First  and  foremost,  you  are  in  Spain,  and  to 
be  in  Spain  is  to  be  thrilled. 

You  may  not  care  for  much  that  is  Spanish; 
but  Spain  is  a  country  like  no  other:  it  is  so  old 
and  so  self-contained;  it  is  so  lazy  and  so  hot; 
it  has  such  vast  cathedrals  and  such  noble 
bridges;  sucli  flowers  and  such  fruits;  and  in 
Spain  nobody  cares  and  everybody  sleeps. 

Above  all,  it  is  a  country  of  the  past. 

Spain  still  has  a  million  mules  to  every  motor- 
car, and  at  any  moment  the  muleteers  might  all 
have  reined  up  to  look  with  the  greater  ease  and 
thoroughness  at  the  odd  figure  of  the  rider  of 
Rosinante,   as   he   approached,   lance   in   rest. 

What  would  seem  to  be  the  very  sheep  which 
that  tragic  romantic  gentleman  took  for  armies 
you  may  watch  from  the  train  as  they  graze 
where  no  grass  is  visible.  You  find  the  same 
windmills  that  he  tliought  were  giants,  waving 
their  arms.  The  paths  are  as  steep,  the  plains 
as  Vast  .111(1  as  iininliabitcd,  and  the  food  is  as 
simple  and  plentiful  as  when  the  Knight  of  the 
Rueful    Countenance    sought    his    adventures. 

[20.'5] 


Giving  and  Receiving 

Were  he  to  return  he  would,  outside  tlie  cities, 
find  almost  nothing  new  but  the  scent  of  to- 
bacco. 

IV 

None  of  the  preparations  for  a  great  spec- 
tacle can  be  dull ;  but  to  the  stranger — and 
perhaps  to  the  initiated — those  of  a  bull-fight 
have  special  intensity.  The  atmosphere  is 
charged  with  excitement. 

There  is  so  much  to  watch. 

The  great  gay  arena  itself,  with  its  myriad 
seats  gradually  filling  under  no  roof  but  the 
blue  of  the  sky. 

The  yellow  and  red  patterned  sand  of  the 
ring. 

The  spectators  seeking  their  places,  all  carry- 
ing cushions  to  put  on  the  hard  bricks ;  all  ani- 
mated, hailing  their  friends,  laughing,  disput- 
ing, expectant  and  full  of  that  odd  blend  of 
carelessness,  leisureliness,  and  independence 
which  makes  Spain  more  democratic  even  than 
that  great  Republic  of  the  West  which,  but  for 
a  Spanish  sailor,  might  never  have  been 
heard  of. 

The  women  with  their  black,  black  eyes  and 
red,  red  lips,  their  lace  veils,  and  their  sway- 
ing, voluptuous  contours. 

When  they  have  found  their  places  and  have 
[206] 


"Whenever  I  See  a  Grey  Horse  .  .  ." 

spread  their  dazzling  shawls  on  the  railing,  they 
look  around,  while  the  men  turn  on  them  their 
long,  bold,  appraising  gaze. 

(Why  is  it  that  in  Latin  countries  the  glance 
is  so  neglected  and  the  stare  such  a  rite?) 

And  over  all  is  the  sun;  everything  is  swim- 
ming in  his  hot  light. 

In  the  ring  is  activity  too.  A  gang  of  men 
are  sprinkling  the  coloured  sand  with  a  long 
hose;  others  are  carrying  the  various  imple- 
ments of  the  spectacle — poles,  darts,  cloaks. 

Now  and  then  one  of  the  actual  heroes,  all 
brilliant  in  his  uniform,  will  emerge  from  a 
doorway,  and,  walking  around  the  narrow  circu- 
lar passage  outside  the  barrier,  collect  homage, 
return  salutations,  here  and  there  touching  the 
hand  of  an  admirer  and  exchanging  a  word  or 
two.     How  proud  the  admirer ! 

A  brass  band  in  hot  orange  uniform  plays 
from  time  to  time;  but  the  symphony  of  human 
voices  is  constant,  amid  it  rising  occasionally  the 
louder  cries  of  the  water-sellers  and  the  fruit- 
sellers  and  the  sellers  of  cigarettes  and  cigars. 

I  know  of  no  scene  more  sparkling,  more 
glaringly  showy  than  this. 

And  whenever  I  see  a  grey  horse,  I  shall 
see  it. 

But  whenever  I  see  a  grey  horse  I  shall  also 
see  ... 

[207] 


Giving  and  Receiving 


And  then,  four  o'clock  having  come,  the  trum- 
pets (it  is  the  only  occasion  on  which  Spain  is 
punctual)  sound  the  start,  and  at  the  blast  two 
police  officers  in  traditional  black  velvet  robes 
canter  into  the  ring  and,  advancing  towards  the 
Royal  Box,  make  their  obeisance  and  receive 
permission  to  begin.  They  then  return  to  the 
entrance  and  lead  in  the  army  of  attack — the 
raatadores,  the  banderilleros,  the  capeadores  and 
the  picadores,  with  all  the  camp-followers  about 
them,  and  lastly  the  harnessed  mules  that  are 
to  drag  away  the  carcasses. 

In  they  come,  marching  to  the  brazen  music 
and  throwing  their  glittering  chests:  a  formida- 
ble array  indeed  to  encounter  the  puzzled, 
frightened  creature  from  an  Andalusian  farm, 
which  for  the  last  few  hours  has  been  fretting 
and  pawing  in  the  pitch-darkness  of  a  cell  a 
few  yards  from  the  arena! 

All  having  made  their  salutations,  the  ring  is 
cleared,  save  for  the  capeadores,  or  cloak- 
wavers,  and  the  great  moment  arrives. 

VI 

The  business   of  goading  and   killing  a  bull 
lasts  for  about  twenty  minutes,  and  these  twenty 
[208] 


"Whenever  I  See  a  Grey  Horse  .  .  ." 

minutes  are  made  up  of  moments  of  interest  and 
excitement  that  is  sometimes  intense;  but  the 
only  really  great  moment  is  the  first. 

You  look  around  and  the  arena  is  empty  save 
for  a  few  men  with  red  cloaks  at  the  far  side. 

Then — suddenly — the   bull. 

The  barrier  has  opened  and  shut  again,  and 
there  he  is — all  lonely  and  surprised,  with  a 
questioning  air  not  unmingled  with  annoyance, 
his  great  brown  head  lowered. 

For  a  while  he  stands  still,  taking  what  stock 
his  eyes,  muddled  by  the  recent  darkness  and 
the  present  glare,  are  capable  of. 

Where  he  is  he  has  no  notion,  for  he  has  never 
seen  anything  like  this  before. 

The  sun  has  become  so  dazzling. 

Fourteen  thousand  human  beings  are  watch- 
ing. 

And  the  colours  that  he  hates  are  everywhere: 
the  ground  is  red  and  yellow  and,  over  there, 
what  are  those  moving  figures  with  red  cloths.'' 

He  tries  to  get  back,  and  there  is  no  door. 

He  begins  to  scent  danger.   .  ,  . 

The  bull,  I  take  it,  does  not  know  what  his 
fate  is  to  be;  for  who  could  have  informed  him.'' 
Dead  bulls  tell  no  tales.  Nor  why  should  he 
imagin*'  anything  so  unpleasant?  He  has  been 
well  cared  for;  and  those  other  bulls,  his  friends, 
who,  from  time  to  time,  had  left  the  farm,  had, 

[209] 


Giving  and  Receiving 

it  is  true,  never  returned,  but  there  was  no 
reason  to  suppose  that  cruelty  or  harm  had  be- 
fallen them. 

The  bull  may  not  know,  but  very  soon  he 
comes  to  suspect.  .  .  . 

This  bull  was  suspicious  now.  He  was  also 
getting  very  angry. 

But  the  principal  impression  that  he  con- 
veyed was  one  of  perplexity.  To  him  the  whole 
thing  was  so  bewildering  it  was  an  out- 
rage. .  .  . 

VII 

The  capeadores  now  advanced  to  fulfil  their 
purpose,  which  is  to  increase  this  perplexity. 

One  hears  that  these  men  carry  their  lives  in 
their  hands,  but  I  saw  no  sign  of  the  bull  being 
an  antagonist  to  be  feared  by  any  expert  prac- 
titioner; for,  apart  altogether  from  his  bemused 
condition,  his  onset  is  so  undisciplined,  his 
rushes  are  so  brainless  and  mechanical,  that  to 
deflect  his  course  is  easy;  and  he  seems  to  have 
been  gifted  by  Providence  with  neither  idea 
nor  power  of  turning  and  beginning  again. 
Once  past  the  cloak,  which  engages  all  his  at- 
tention, he  is  innocuous  until  the  next  provoca- 
tion sets  in. 

Fear  is,  however,  not  absent,  for  the  capea- 
[210] 


** Whenever  I  See  a  Grey  Horse  .  .  ." 

dores  are  continually   fleeing  to  the  bolt  holes 
in  the  barrier  with  ignominious  speed. 


vni 

Each  capeadore  having  displayed  his  prowess 
and  address,  applause  being  awarded  them  ac- 
cording to  their  proximity  to  the  bull  and  the 
exercise  of  the  minimum  of  movement  in  avoid- 
ing him — merely  to  sway  the  body  away  being, 
of  course,  far  more  admirable  than  to  use  the 
feet  (but  oh!  how  pathetically  dazed  and  stupid 
the  creature  is!) — the  next  act  begins. 

The  horses  enter. 


Whenever  I  see  a  grey  horse  I  shall  see,  above 
all,  one  of  these,  who  was  also  grey. 

All  four  of  them  were  thin  and  old,  but  the 
grey  was  the  oldest  and  the  leanest.  Its 
emaciation  was  terrible ;  and  the  man  on  its  back 
was  so  large  and  robust  and  prosperous. 

I  have  said  that  the  bull  probably  does  not 
know  his  fate,  altliough  lie  must  come  to  suspect 
it;  but  since  certain  of  the  horses  have  left  bull- 
rings alive  (though  only  to  enter  again)  some 
tidings  of  their  destiny  have  no  doubt  reached 
the  others. 

[211] 


Giving  and  Receiving 

Besides,  they  may  have  caught  sight  behind 
the  scenes  of  a  not  too  badly  injured  comrade 
being  sewn  up  to  serve  again. 

And  so  this  poor  old  grey  may  have  known. 

But  even  if  he  did  know  he  could  not  have 
appeared  more  hopeless,  more  despairingly  in 
need  of  friendship  from  that  super-animal  of 
whom  he  is  notoriously  the  friend. 

But  there  was  no  kindness  for  him  there. 

On  each  horse  was  a  brawny  fellow  in  gay 
trappings,  carrying  a  long  pole,  at  the  end  of 
which  is  an  iron  spike  with  which  a  certain 
muscle  in  the  bull's  shoulder  is  to  be  severed; 
and  all  wore,  for  what  I  was  to  learn  was  a  good 
reason,  thick  leggings  and  enormous  boots. 

The  time  having  come,  the  horses'  eyes  were 
covered  with  black  bandages,  and  the  second  act 
of  the  drama  began  in  earnest. 

I  was  expecting  to  see  steeds  capable  of  es- 
caping from  the  bull's  attacks.  I  now  learned 
that  towards  them,  all  blind  and  quiescent  and 
infirm,  the  bull  had  to  be  lured,  and  cheated 
into  an  assault  which  has  no  real  significance  in 
the  contest  whatever. 

This  cheating  is  the  task  of  the  men  with  the 
red  cloaks;  it  is  they  who  by  a  series  of  rushes 
gradually  bring  the  angry,  puzzled  creature 
near  a  horse  and  persuade  him  that  that  horse 
is  his  foe. 
[212] 


"Whenever  I  See  a  Grey  Horse  .  .  ." 

What  the  natural  attitude  of  a  bull  to  a 
horse  is,  I  cannot  say;  but  I  should  doubt  if  it 
is  hostile.  I  seem  to  have  seen  horses  and 
cattle  grazing  peacefully  in  common. 

The  old  grey  certainly  could  have  had  no 
quarrel  with  the  bull,  nor  the  bull  with  him; 
but  by  the  time  the  capeadores  and  picadores 
have  done  their  duty,  a  bull  is  incapable  of  dis- 
tinguishing anything  and  might  think  its 
favourite  cow  its  deadliest  enemy. 

So  then,  finding  itself  near  the  grey,  whose 
only  offence  was  this  contiguity,  and  who  was 
being  held  up  by  the  surrounding  athletes  so 
that  there  might  be  no  evasion,  the  bull,  so 
incapable  of  any  form  of  retaliation  on  all  these 
quick-witted,  quick-footed  men,  lowered  its  head 
and  charged.  .  .  . 

It  was  the  most  sickening  and  debased  mo- 
ment of  my  life. 

The  tottering  victim  was  actually  lifted  from 
the  ground.  .  .  . 

Its   bowels.   .   .  . 

The  bull  was  now  lost  to  all  shame.  lie  li.id 
found  a  butt  and  was  wreaking  his  muddled 
vengeance  on  it. 

Again  and  again  the  horns  entered  and  tore; 
his  shaggy  head  was  briglil   with  blood. 

At  the  first  sh(x-k  the  horse  was  astounded: 
his  wliolf  })ody  trembled  with  astonishment  and 

[213] 


Giving  and  Receiving 

pain.  Then  he  gradually  sank  and  fell  over,  his 
rider  winning  rounds  of  applause  by  remaining 
in  the  saddle  till  the  last  possible  moment.  Not 
exactly  in  the  saddle  but  half  in  and  half  out, 
the  leg  nearest  the  bull,  and  therefore  in  the 
danger  zone,  having  long  been  raised  out  of 
danger.  .  .  . 

Upholders  of  bull-fights  have  said  to  me  that 
the  circumstance  that  the  horses  are  so  old,  and 
must  soon  die  anyway,  is  a  palliation.  But 
is  it? 

I  doubt  if  this  disembowelling,  even  though 
essential  to  the  sport,  need  be  so  deliberate. 


The  grey  being  no  long  game — for  even  the 
loyallest  horse  must  fail  to  provide  further 
amusement  when  most  of  his  vital  organs  are 
strewing  the  ground — the  capeadores  drew  the 
bull  away  towards  another. 

But  he  seemed  to  have  lost  interest  in  them. 

He  was  incited  by  every  device;  he  was 
prodded  and  goaded  by  the  picadores;  but  he 
did  no  more  than  gore  two  horses  with  so  casual 
a  disdain  that  it  was  possible,  when  this  session 
of  the  fight  closed,  for  them  to  be  cantered  off 
with  only  a  few  of  their  entrails  hanging  out. 
[214] 


'Whenever  I  See  a  Grey  Horse 


>» 


zi 

In  the  next  act  the  bull  is  engaged  and  en- 
raged by  the  banderilleros,  who,  holding  a  rib- 
boned dart  in  each  hand,  mana?uvre  until  it  is 
in  position  and  then  fling  them  into  his  skin  in 
a  sensitive  part  just  behind  the  head  where  they 
prick  and  sting  and  infuriate. 

There  seemed  to  be  some  peril  in  this  pro- 
ceeding, but  attendant  capeadores,  all  ready 
with  distractions,  dilute  it. 

XII 

And  then  came  the  final  scene  when  the 
matador  administers  the  fatal  thrust.  For  the 
bull  has  no  sporting  chance.     He  never  escapes. 

With  his  long  sharp  rapier  concealed  by  his 
cloak — although  not  so  concealed,  I  fancied, 
that  the  bull  was  without  suspicion,  or  shall  I 
say  (for  he  must  have  been  tiring  of  so  much 
life)  without  hope.'' — the  famous  artist  played 
with  his  victim  for  a  few  minutes  with  perfect 
composure  and  mastery,  and  then,  seizing  his 
opj)ortunity,  plunged  the  steel  into  its  side,  near 
the  shoulder,  and  left  it  there. 

The  bull  staggered  a  little,  regained  its 
steadiness,  looked  round  at  us  all  wonderingly 

[215] 


Giving  and  Receiving 

and  with  a  hint  of  reproach,  and  made  an  effort 
to  regain  its  strength;  and  then  its  knees  bent 
and  it  rolled  over  and,  quivering,  expired. 

It  was  a  record  kill,  I  understand,  and  the 
spectators  were  rapturous. 

And  then  in  trotted  the  two  teams  of  mules 
with  their  tackle,  one  of  which  dragged  the 
carcass  of  the  bull  out  of  the  arena  that  he 
had  dignified,  and  the  other  the  carcass  of  the 
grey  horse,  which  had  been  left  where  it  fell, 
dead,  done  for  and  negligible. 

And  the  great  gay  concourse,  of  which  I  made 
one,  lit  new  cigarettes  and  exchanged  criticisms 
on  the  merits  of  the  fray,  and  prepared  for  the 
next  encounter. 

ZIII 

But  I  had  seen  enough. 

My  ticket  entitled  me  to  witness  the  deaths 
of  five  more  of  the  handsomest  bulls  in  Anda- 
lusia ;  but  I  came  away. 

And  now,  and  henceforward,  whenever  I  see 
a  grey  horse  .  .  . 


[216] 


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